


Up to Chance

by Sarahtoo



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: Established Phrack, F/M, Post-Season/Series 03, Wish me luck, almost certainly, casefic, here's hoping this crazy idea will work, in theory, quote roulette, smutfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-19
Updated: 2018-12-31
Packaged: 2019-03-06 20:08:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 49,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13418712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sarahtoo/pseuds/Sarahtoo
Summary: Phryne is on Mildura Station in northern Victoria, working a case for a friend of Aunt P's. Jack, of course, is back in Melbourne, doing his job, and they're each missing the other.My entry for the year of quotes; this January chapter is e.e. cummings'I Like My Body When It Is With Your.





	1. e.e. cummings

**Author's Note:**

> So I had this crazy idea. I love the idea of quote prompts, and wouldn’t it be cool if I could string them all together in one big story, updating monthly, all year long? And Fire_Sign said “yaaasssss, doooo iiitttt” (extra letters included), so I said “why not?” But she wouldn’t give me even a peek at the monthly quote selections, which meant I’d be going in blind. “OK,” I thought, “That’s fair.” And then I needed to reevaluate my sanity, because my next thought was, “I’m going with it.”
> 
> So, dear readers, here is my pledge to you. I will write a chapter a month on this story all year long. Each chapter will be based on at least one of the month’s quote prompts, and I will get those at the beginning of the month, just like everybody else. I will attempt to stitch these monthly chapters into one long casefic. I am aware of the ways this could go horribly wrong, but if I can make it work, how cool will this be? Hope to see you along the way!
> 
> Please note: This first chapter is pretty much all fluff, and maybe an M rating. The E rating is because, even having written nothing past this as yet, I know myself. There will be smut at some point.

“I swear, Jack, I’m never taking an out-of-town job for one of Aunt P’s friends again.” Phryne could hear the petulance in her own voice, and she grimaced, her hand on the telephone tightening.

“You say that now, but the next time she asks, you’ll be right there to help. You know it.” 

She could hear the smile in Jack’s voice, and his tone was the kind he’d use with a witness or a feral animal: low and calming. Despite herself, Phryne’s lips quirked.

“I suppose you’re right,” she admitted, picking up the pen that sat beside the telephone base and beginning to doodle on the small pad of paper that had been left there. “But this is hardly the kind of town that is meant to hold my attention. There aren’t even any clubs!”

“However will you manage?” Jack’s voice was dry and humorous.

“I suppose I’ll just have to solve this case as quickly as possible so that I can return home to my handsome inspector friend,” she purred.

“Are you seeing someone new?”

Phryne laughed softly. Jack’s humor was one of the things she loved best about him. She leaned back against the wall of the alcove—a cubby under the stairs, really, but fitted with a bench seat and a small built-in shelf for the telephone. The hall it sat in was deserted, the house’s inhabitants already abed. 

“The good news is that I think I’ve found the trail on this case, at least. Mr. Chaffey was right to balk at the idea that it was his secretary who was embezzling.” She laid her head back against the wall, closing her eyes. “Hopefully I’ll be heading home in another day or so.”

“That is good news,” Jack murmured. “I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you too, Jack,” Phryne said, sighing softly, her voice edging back into plaintive. “A sheep station. Whatever was I thinking?” 

Janice Chaffey, the wife of the station owner, was a friend of Aunt Prudence’s from their school days; her husband Benton’s family had owned the station for nearly fifty years, and though Mildura was at practically the opposite end of Victoria from Melbourne, Janice and Prudence had kept in touch. When Phryne arrived, Janice had taken her on a tour, explaining that Mildura Station had been an irrigation experiment spearheaded by a Chaffey ancestor. A successful one, by all accounts; in just over 40 years, its fruit crops—including wine grapes, which Phryne had to admit was one mitigating factor in her dislike of the place—had become vital to the Victoria economy.

“You poor darling,” Jack soothed. “How can I help?”

Phryne tugged off her shoes and pulled her stockinged feet up onto the bench seat—it was rather like her window seat at home—in what Aunt P would deem a very unladylike posture. She sighed. “Entertain me, Jack,” she said softly. “If you were here, I wouldn’t be floundering with all of this ‘early to bed’ nonsense. What kind of civilized place closes up after six o’clock?”

“If I were there, you’d have dragged me out to find whatever after-hours illegal drinking establishment is running in that town, and I’d have to do my best to squelch my misgivings.” She could hear the humor threading through the dryly unamused words, and her mouth stretched in an answering smile. 

“Just think of the fun, though, Jack—who would know that you’re a policeman this far out in the middle of nowhere?”

“I would, Miss Fisher,” he responded. 

“Spoilsport.” The word was soft, a caress across the lines.

“Well, since I am not there to rain on your parade, how else can I entertain you?” She heard the rustle of paper. “Shall I read to you?”

“Well, I don’t know—what are you reading?” It didn’t really matter, Phryne knew. She loved to listen to Jack read, even those American westerns he loved. His voice was enough, and she squirmed into a more comfortable position on the telephone bench.

“I have a volume of e e cummings’ poetry that I’ve been reading—there’s a poem that made me think of you.” His voice was slightly softer, as if he’d propped the telephone receiver against his shoulder and it had drifted farther from his mouth.

“Oh? How so?”

“It…ah, here it is.” His voice came back, stronger. “It reminded me of how I felt the first time we… were together.” There was a shyness to his words now.

“Read it to me?” It was her turn to use the gentle and low voice, coaxing him out. Jack rarely spoke about his feelings—which was really a pot and kettle situation, as she didn’t either—and she was endlessly curious about them. She’d once called him a never-ending source of mystery, and she enjoyed uncovering his secrets.

Jack cleared his throat, and his voice dropped, its low register stroking softly against her skin. At his first words, Phryne’s eyes closed and she curled into the corner of the alcove, facing away from the hall, one hand holding the telephone to her ear and the other wrapped around her knees, hugging herself as she imagined it was him.

“ _i like my body when it is with your_  
_body. It is so quite new a thing.”_

Jack spoke slowly, giving each word heft and meaning, and she sent her mind back to the first time they’d made love—the tentative touches turning greedy; his hands, so large and strong, upon her skin. Her hand slid between her thighs, and she tucked her fingers beneath the edge of her knickers to touch herself.

 _“Muscles better and nerves more._  
_i like your body. i like what it does,_  
_i like its hows.”_

Phryne’s lips curved as her fingers circled against the delicate flesh between her legs. He did like her body, she knew, and not just for the pleasure it brought him. He liked the way she walked, the way she played tennis, her facility at driving a car or flying a plane. But he particularly liked her body against his—clothed or naked—and so did she.

 _“i like to feel the spine_  
_of your body and its bones,and the trembling_  
_-firm-smooth ness and which i will_  
_again and again and again_  
_kiss,”_

In Phryne’s mind, Jack’s voice became fact—she could feel his fingers tracing the bumps of her spine, his mouth moving against her breast; the fingers on her sex sped up, circling her sensitive bud and sliding into the growing moisture beneath it. She tried to control her breathing, knowing that Jack might get self-conscious if he realized what his words were doing to her. And there was always a chance that an operator was listening in, a fact that had stopped Jack from finishing what he’d started more than once in their time together. He was not one for opening up their pleasure for others to witness. 

_“i like kissing this and that of you,_  
_i like, slowly stroking the,shocking fuzz_  
_of your electric furr,and what-is-it comes_  
_over parting flesh…”_

Phryne couldn’t help the tiny gasp that escaped her, but she tried, rolling her lips together and angling the phone’s mouthpiece away from her face. She felt the intrusion of her own fingers as if they were Jack’s, and she found herself mimicking the motions he used to bring her to climax this way, the pressure-pull rhythm on her flesh one that he’d taught her.

 _“And eyes big love-crumbs,_  
_and possibly i like the thrill_  
_of under me you so quite new”_

Phryne held a vivid image of Jack in her mind, his muscles straining with the effort of control, his mouth and chin shiny with the moisture of her body, and she plunged her fingers as deep within herself as they would reach, wishing that they were his cock, that her tightly curled body was pressed warmly beneath him. With a cry that was more like a hitching of her breath, she came at the thought of him, her body shaking as her orgasm washed over her. Blissfully floating, she stretched her legs, pointing her toes as her muscles released.

“Phryne?” Jack’s voice in her ear told her that she’d been silent too long in the aftermath of that reading. “Phryne, are you still there?”

“Oh, yes, I’m still here, Jack,” she purred. “That poem is… delicious. And you read it so well.” Her voice was low, throaty with the relaxation that follows release.

“I thought you might like it,” Jack said, and she thought she heard a certain smugness in his tone. Had he intended that reading to affect her this way? If so, it was new and exciting, and it opened up all sorts of possibilities.

“I have a new appreciation for poetry after that. I might have a look around here,” she said, trying to keep her voice casual. “See whether the Chaffeys’ library runs to it.”

“If you find something, you’ll have to share it with me. Say, tomorrow night?”

“Absolutely, Jack.” A wicked thought hit her. “Should I call you at the office?”

“Ah, no, I think at home might be… better.”

Phryne grinned and sat up, sliding her feet back into her shoes. “All right, then, darling. Same time tomorrow?”

“That sounds perfect. Good night, Miss Fisher.” As always, his voice caressed her name, and she felt a wave of love for him. 

“Good night, Jack.”

“Sleep well,” he responded, the humor back in his tone.

“Oh, believe me, I will,” she replied, laughter skating through her voice. “And you as well. Dream of me, darling.”

“Always,” was his reply.

With a sigh, Phryne hung up the phone and headed for the library. She’d need something to read, to pass the time, and if it was poetry of a certain kind, well, so much the better. 


	2. Jane Austen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The simple crime that Phryne traveled to Mildura Station to solve becomes something a bit... more. For the February quote challenge; I chose the Jane Austen quote: “There are as many forms of love as there are moments in time.”

Phryne woke slowly, as was her habit, her awareness of first the bed—soft sheets, firm mattress, plush pillows—and then the room growing moment by moment. She sighed, her eyes still closed against the morning light. The scent of the room was clean and bright, but not hers; she was a guest on Mildura Station, and her job today was to prove the innocence of a man who’d been accused of embezzlement. 

Opening her eyes, she rolled to her back, wishing that she wasn’t alone in the big bed. Her phone call with Jack the night before had been satisfying in its way, but not as much as it would have been with him beside her. She’d gone searching in the house’s meager library for something that she could read to him, Jack’s voice reading that erotic poem still ringing in her mind, but she’d found only a copy of the collected works of Shakespeare. She supposed that she could make do with something out of it; Jack liked the Bard, and it wasn’t as if old William couldn’t be counted on for a racy joke or two.

Before she could tempt her lovely inspector from afar, however, she would need to see if she could find more concrete evidence to exonerate her host’s secretary. Yesterday, she’d interviewed the household staff and had spoken to the managers of the station’s three business holdings—vineyard, orchard, and sheep farm; all of them had said nearly the same thing her host had about young William Blakehurst: He was kind, smart, and honest to a fault. 

Today, she hoped to talk to the man himself. Blakehurst had been elsewhere on the station when she’d arrived the day before; in his absence, her host had provided her with the business ledgers. Phryne’s initial review of the books had confirmed for her that someone was skimming funds, but with the character evidence piling up on Blakehurst’s side, she felt she needed to investigate further.

With a luxuriant stretch, Phryne rose from the bed, her black-trimmed peach pajamas sliding smoothly across her skin. Stripping down, she washed at the basin, thinking longingly of her tub, and perhaps a certain detective inspector to share it with. With a shake of her head—really, it wasn’t as if Jack would be with her every moment at home—she dressed quickly in a sturdy navy canvas skirt and a long-sleeved blouse in shades of blue and green before pulling on her tall boots. It was past the general breakfast hour, but she thought she could charm the kitchen staff into a plate of toast and a pot of tea.

Thirty minutes later, fortified by a cheerfully supplied breakfast of eggs on toast, Phryne made her way to Blakehurst’s study on the chance that he’d be there. She was very interested to speak to the man to see whether her instincts backed up the observations she’d gotten from her interviewees. If the secretary was, as she was beginning to hope, everything the others said he was, this case would be all the more interesting for it, and she’d have a real mystery on her hands.

The room in which Blakehurst did his work for Benton Chaffey was almost narrow enough to be called a hallway, with only space for a roll-top desk on one side and a bookshelf opposite it. A door, the window in it revealing the house’s kitchen garden and a flagstone path that wound toward the garage, was set in the far wall. Phryne was willing to bet that the space had been nothing more than a mudroom at one time, before the kitchen had been moved to the other side of the house and modernized. Willam Blakehurst was not present, so Phryne moved inside, skimming the titles on the bookshelf and opening the drawers of the desk. She wasn’t looking for anything in particular, but one never knew when a clue would appear.

In the lap drawer, she found the man’s diary, with the day’s appointments laid out—meeting with Mr. Chaffey at eight, inspection of the harvest facility at ten, and a to-do list that included tasks from household accounting to those for the overall operation. A busy man, Mr. Blakehurst. Flipping back to the previous day, she paused. There was a notation about her arrival, expected just after noon, and her name had been underlined. Phryne reflected on the fact that Blakehurst had been unavailable when she arrived. Had something of importance to the station come up? It certainly appeared that he’d cleared his afternoon, possibly to allow time to talk to her. Where, then, had he been?

The only other item in his diary after her arrival was a notation about dinner with someone named Caroline. In the top left drawer of the desk, she found a photo of a pretty young woman, standing under the trees in what must be one of the station’s orchards. Phryne examined the image, committing the woman’s face to memory, and then slid it back into the drawer. That might be another character witness to find.

After spending half an hour searching, Phryne sat back in the chair. What next? She glanced at Blakehurst’s diary again, and heard Jack’s voice in her mind. _Perhaps a tour of the harvest facility?_ Phryne nodded. That seemed like a good next step; she could head there now.

Her mind made up, she rose and began the trek back to the kitchen. The main house on Mildura Station was built in the Queen Anne style, and though it had been modernized with electric lights and telephone wiring, it was easy to feel its age. The kitchen was in the back of the house and of respectable size; larger than her kitchen at Wardlow, definitely, if not the scale of Aunt Prudence’s. And like most working kitchens, Phryne was certain that she’d find someone there—probably the Chaffeys’ cook or butler—who could point her toward the harvest facility.

She had just stepped through the kitchen door, however, when the exterior door banged open to reveal a boy of about fifteen whose eyes were wide and wild, his chest heaving as if he’d been running flat out.

“Mikey?” The cook, a warm, motherly woman named Mrs. Turner, turned from where she was kneading dough to face the door. “Whatever is the matter?”

“Ma’am, it’s…” the boy gulped air, his arms braced on the edge of the door and its frame as if their support was the only thing keeping him upright. Phryne noticed that his face, which must usually have been a lovely golden brown, was nearly gray. “It’s Mr. Blakehurst! He’s… in the vineyard… his body…”

“Mr. Blakehurst!” Mrs. Turner froze. “Body?” Her eyelids fluttered, and Phryne stepped forward just in time to help guide her to a chair as her knees gave way. 

“There, Mrs. Turner, you stay here.” Phryne looked up at the boy, who seemed stricken again. “Mikey, was it?” He nodded mutely. “Please take me to what you’ve found.” 

She’d taken two steps toward the door when she paused, Jack’s face in her mind, his head tilted and his eyes steady. She’d forgotten something. Turning to the day maid, who had risen from where she’d been chopping vegetables to lay a cool, wet cloth over the cook’s forehead, she addressed her directly. “You there, what is your name?”

“B-Brenda, ma’am,” the young woman—she wasn’t more than eighteen, Phryne thought—stammered.

“Brenda, please telephone the police and a doctor and have them meet us—” she turned back to the boy. “Where?”

Mikey babbled out what sounded like a field and row number.

“Do you have that, Brenda?” The girl nodded. “Good. Tell them it’s an emergency, all right? Now, Mikey, take me to him.” 

The run from the house to the vineyard wasn’t far, but Phryne was still out of breath when they arrived. She sent up a quick blessing that she was wearing her boots and not heels. She ran quite well in heels, of course, but the possibility of twisting an ankle on the rough ground would be considerably higher, and could be disastrous.

A small knot of people were clustered partway down one of the rows, and Phryne moved in quickly. 

“Stand back,” she said loudly, “Special Constable Phryne Fisher. Please, stand back.” Jack’s amused face hovered in the back of her mind—she hadn’t really been on the books as a special constable since the tennis case, but she didn’t think he’d actually mind her claiming the title. 

Slowly, their eyes wide, the people stepped back from the prone body of a man. And it was only a body—Phryne could tell at a glance that he was dead; the bullet hole under his jaw was clearly visible from where she stood. She imagined that the view from the top of his head would be terribly distressing to those with weak stomachs, especially if they’d known him in life.

“This is Mr. William Blakehurst?” She directed the question to the group at large, crouching to view the scene without touching anything. 

“Yes,” one man, a redhead about the same age as Blakehurst had been, spoke up. His eyes were red, and tear tracks streaked his face. “That’s Will all right.” 

“Has anyone moved him?” Phryne examined the blood that seeped out from behind the head, lifting her eyes to track the sprinkling of gore that fanned the vines behind where he would have been standing.

The redhead swallowed, his throat clicking with the effort. “I did, miss. He was on his side, and I rolled him, to s-see if I could help,” his voice cracked. “And there’s—there’s a note.” 

Phryne looked back to see that the man held out a piece of paper. She stood, stepping closer, to take it from him.

> _My darling Caroline,_
> 
> _I am so sorry. I only wanted to give us a good start. I never thought anyone would notice what I was taking. Please don’t think ill of me, but I cannot bear what I have done. I hope one day you can forgive me._
> 
> _Your Will_

“Who is this Caroline?” Phryne looked up at the young man, who was scrubbing his face with his hands. 

“Um,” he said. “She’s—she was—Will’s fiancée. He adored her.”

“And you are?” Phryne looked again at the body of the young secretary. He could not have been more than twenty-five, and he’d been handsome and fit, if not overly tall. He wore canvas trousers and a collared linen shirt, and the gun was still clenched tightly in his right hand.

“Rob Jeffreys, ma’am,” the young man replied. “Will was my best mate.” His voice broke on the last sentence, and one of the other men laid a hand on his shoulder. “I had no idea,” he went on, tears clogging his words. “I didn’t know that he needed the money that badly, or that he was so desperate he’d take his own life. I’m so sorry… I didn’t know.” He covered his face with his hands, his shoulders shaking.

Running footsteps pounded down the row, and the crowd of people shifted to reveal Benton Chaffey, the station owner, red-faced and out of breath.

“Good God, Will!” Mr. Chaffey stepped forward, making as if to drop to his knees beside the body, but Phryne forestalled him.

“Please, Mr. Chaffey, don’t come any closer. We need to treat this as a crime scene until we’re certain of what’s happened. I sent Brenda for the police and a doctor; they should be here shortly.” Phryne kept her voice kind but stern. Jack would be proud. 

“Oh, yes, of course,” Chaffey said, placing one hand on his hip, the other rising to cover his mouth. He turned stricken eyes to Phryne. “He’s dead, then?”

“I’m sorry, but yes, he is.”

“Will…” Chaffey’s voice was soft, and his jaw clenched as his eyes closed. He was a big man, broad shouldered and barrel-chested, his salt-and-pepper hair cut short and left unpomaded. Opening his eyes, he turned to enfold Rob Jeffreys in his arms. The younger man allowed the embrace, even as he wiped his eyes. Chaffey looked around. “Go on now, we’ll take care of Will. You all go back to your work.”

“Before you go, please give me your names,” Phryne spoke up. “I’m certain the constable will want to take your statements.” She stepped carefully around Will’s body and pulled a small notebook and pencil from her skirt pocket, thankful that this habit of Jack’s had rubbed off on her.

“Can’t we cover him?” An older man spoke as she approached the group. “It don’t seem right, leavin’ him in the open like that. Disrespectful, like.”

“I’m afraid not, or not yet, at least.” Phryne kept her tone apologetic. “We want to be sure that any evidence that’s here stays pristine.”

“Evidence?” Chaffey lifted his head from where he’d been murmuring to Rob. “It’s pretty clear that he shot himself, isn’t it?”

“Perhaps.” Phryne tilted her head. “It’s always best to be sure.” 

Chaffey nodded. “Jim,” he turned to another man, whose white hair and full beard made him look a little like St. Nicholas, “would you take Rob home, please? I want you to take the day, Rob, and longer if you need to. No, don’t argue,” the younger man had lifted his face from Chaffey’s shoulder, and his pale skin was blotchy, making his freckles stand out in stark relief. “You take the time you need, and don’t worry about the pay. I’ll make sure you get it.” With a final hug, Chaffey passed Jeffreys off to the older man, then turned back to Phryne. His own eyes were red, but he regarded her steadily. “I’ll wait here with you, Miss Fisher.”

“Thank you, Mr. Chaffey,” Phryne replied. She kept her notebook out once she had all the bystanders’ names and began scribbling down her impressions and the things she’d noticed. It was something she usually didn’t need to do, with Hugh or another constable around, but she knew that Jack used notes like this to jog his memory.

Once all of the workers had moved off, Phryne and Chaffey were alone for a few minutes before the town’s constable came running up. He was a young man, and the bars on his arm showed that he was senior constable rank. What she could see of his brown hair was neatly trimmed, and he held his rounded helmet securely on top of his head as he ran. 

Phryne stood from where she’d been crouched beside the body, moving to stand beside Mr. Chaffey. When the constable got closer, Phryne could see that he was physically fit, as all constables had to be, but he was not an attractive man. His nose had been broken and badly set at one time, so it now sat askew in a face that was heavily pocked with acne scars. His lips were thin and his teeth crooked. His eyes—bright and green—were his best feature, except for the fear she could see in them.

“Ah, Constable Sawyer,” Chaffey said. He had been standing quietly with his hands in his pockets as Phryne performed her investigation, and now seemed almost relieved to have something helpful to do.

“Sir,” Sawyer replied, “I am sorry for the delay. Brenda found me down at the shearing barn.” His breathing was heavy, and Phryne blinked a little at his voice—it reminded her of Jack’s, low and growly. The timbre wasn’t quite right, and he didn’t speak with Jack’s confidence, but she found it comforting all the same. She hoped the young man’s character would live up to it.

“No worries,” Chaffey was saying. “We are fortunate to have Miss Phryne Fisher with us—she’s a lady detective who works regularly with the Victoria Police in Melbourne.”

Phryne held out a hand and smiled. “Charmed.”

“Miss.” Sawyer’s handshake was firm and respectful. He stepped around Phryne to view the body, and she could see the moment he recognized Blakehurst. “Oh, Will.” He made to step forward, and Phryne laid a hand on his chest.

“Please pardon my question—no insult is meant—but have you ever handled a murder case before, constable?” Phryne’s voice was calm and nonjudgemental, and Sawyer grimaced a little.

“Murder?” His eyes shifted to the body and then back to her. “Not as lead, miss,” he admitted. “I assisted on a few during my training in Bendigo, but we generally don’t get murders up here.”

Phryne nodded. “I can’t be certain, of course, that this is murder,” she said, keeping her voice matter-of-fact, “but it doesn’t ring true to me. I’d like to do some further investigation. He was supposed to have dinner with his sweetheart last night, and I’d be interested to see whether he made that date. He also, based on his diary, had intended to speak to me when I arrived, but he was nowhere to be found.” 

Sawyer swallowed hard. “So you think we should treat it like a murder case until it’s proved otherwise?”

“I think that would be wise,” she agreed. “I work with the senior DI at Melbourne’s City South, Jack Robinson, and I’d also suggest requesting his assistance.” She looked back down at the body, pity twisting in her chest. “I asked Brenda to call for a doctor as well. I hope whoever she speaks to will be willing to act as coroner for us.”

“I’m certain that Dr. Bready will help,” Chaffey spoke up. “He’s known Will since he was born.”

“Excellent. Then let me show you what I noted, constable, and you can tell me what you see. Then we’ll get his body moved to some sort of morgue where the doctor can work with him.”

“I’ll leave you to it,” Chaffey said. “I need to go tell my wife.”

“If you would, please take a moment to write down what you know of Mr. Blakehurst’s movements yesterday and this morning, along with anyone who might have seen him.” It was as if Jack was speaking, Phryne realized, though the words had come out of her own mouth.

“Of course, Miss Fisher,” Chaffey said, his gaze even and his voice purposeful. “Whatever I can do to assist. Will was a good man, and if he was murdered, I want to see him get justice.” With a nod and a final, sad look at the body, he set off for the house, his angry stride and clenched fists reflecting his inner turmoil.

“All right, then, Constable Sawyer, let’s get started. The doctor will likely be here any moment.” Feeling Jack’s presence around her like a warm blanket, Phryne turned back to the body, prepared to keep looking until she found the truth. 

Perhaps her call to Jack tonight could accomplish more than teasing her lover with some Shakespearean love words; if she played it right, he could be here to help as soon as tomorrow. The thought lightened her heart more than she cared to admit; she probably didn’t need Jack to help her solve this case, but they did work better as a team. And he had other uses, as well. She just had to convince him that his presence was necessary for more than her own prurient purposes. It might not be easy, but nothing that mattered ever was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK, I'll admit, this feels like one of those “squint really hard and maybe you’ll see the gist of the prompt” things. I knew, going into this project, that there’d be months when none of the quotes worked with what I had planned for the case, but I didn’t expect it to be so soon! 
> 
> In my head, Phryne is far away from her love, and yet he is with her, helping her just as he would if he were by her side. I sincerely hope that comes through, and that, y’know, it counts. Either way, I hope to do better next month!


	3. L. M. Montgomery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phryne has decided that she really wants Jack to join her in investigating the case on Mildura Station, and as we all know, she has a way with our handsome inspector.

“Hallo, Jack!” Phryne kept her voice cheerful—not a difficult task, as her heart lifted when she heard his voice.

“Miss Fisher? Is everything all right?” Jack’s concern echoed clearly through the telephone line. She understood it—they’d agreed that she would call him at home that evening, and here she was, on the line to City South before noon.

“Well, I’m fine, but there’s been a bit of a wrinkle in my embezzlement case.” She sat again on the small bench beside the telephone in the hallway of the big house, her legs crossed and her elbow on her knees. Twisting the cord around her finger, she glanced over to where Benton Chaffey stood in the parlor, his big arms wrapped around his wife. 

“Is someone dead?” Jack’s question was delivered dryly, and Phryne rolled her eyes. Honestly, it wasn’t as if she was present at every murder scene in Victoria.

“Well, yes, unfortunately. My accused embezzler, of apparent suicide.”

“Seems like an admission of guilt to me, Miss Fisher. Does that mean you’re heading home sooner than expected?” The hope in Jack’s voice made her lips curl into a smile. 

“Actually, I was rather hoping that you’d be willing to come up and assist me. I have my doubts that his wound was self-inflicted.”

“And why would I be the one to assist you? I’m on the other side of the state. Surely there’s an inspector in Bendigo that you could hand the case to.” She could see him in her mind’s eye, his hand on his hip and his eyebrows lowered in consternation.

“Well, I considered that,”—she had, for a moment, and discarded it as a wasted opportunity—“but I don’t _know_ any inspectors in Bendigo, and I’ve promised Aunt P that I’ll help her friends, so I can’t leave until it’s solved. I know that you and I, together, can do that.” She put a caress into her voice. “And I really could use the help of a man I trust.”

He was silent for a moment, and what she’d just said hit her. She did trust him, more than any other man she’d ever known. That didn’t come easily to her, and he knew it. When he spoke, his tone was reluctant.

“Phryne,” he said slowly, “I want to help…”

“Then you’ll come?” She sat up, her voice brightening with hope.

“… but I highly doubt that the chief commissioner will sign off on my traveling so far away,” he continued, his voice a low rumble tinged with regret. 

“You just leave that to me,” she said brightly. “I’ll arrange everything. I’ll call you back this evening, as we planned, and give you all the details. See you soon, Jack!”

She hung up on his sputtering protests. It had been obvious that he’d been trying to say no, but he’d underestimated the lengths to which she would go to secure his help. With a determined look, she picked up the handset again and asked the operator to put her through.

“Aunt Prudence! How are you? I’m calling with an update on your friend Janice’s case…” 

Less than ten minutes later, she hung up again, this time with a satisfied smirk on her face. Aunt P would work on the commissioner to get Jack assigned to this case; Phryne would concentrate on arranging his transportation.

Lifting the telephone to her ear for a third time, she put in a call to Wardlow. Dot would need some time to arrange for Jack’s train passage, and Mr. B might need a trip to the market to prepare a lunch basket for Jack to take with him. Once she’d put that in motion, she had people to interview, regardless of whether Blakehurst’s death was deemed a suicide. Even if it was, that meant that the money he’d stolen would likely be somewhere on the station. She just had to find it.

* * *

The town’s doctor had set up shop in a small house that sat close to the main street of Mildura proper. He was, by all accounts, a bachelor, and his office was also his residence; it sat within easy walking distance of the hotel dining room, a convenient arrangement for someone with unpredictable hours. The house was similar in size to Jack’s bungalow back in Melbourne, but that was where the similarity ended. The doctor’s building was essentially a square box set on a large concrete base that extended five feet beyond its walls to form a rough porch; the green-tiled roof that topped its whitewashed board walls extended out to the edge of the concrete to shade the bench seat that stretched beneath the window to one side of the door. For all that the area was lush and green, the garden was nothing but a stretch of browning grasses, with the exception of a large sugar gum tree that stood beside the path. 

Phryne stepped up onto the porch, her heels tapping against the concrete, and knocked briskly. She had forgotten—if she’d ever really known—just how hot it could get in the interior of the country, and though her hat and parasol kept the worst of the sun off, she appreciated the relative cool of the shadow under the porch. So it was with some relief that she greeted the woman who swung the door open.

“Good afternoon,” she said. “I’m Phryne Fisher; I believe the doctor is expecting me?” Dr. Bready had arrived in the vineyard that morning and taken charge of the body; when Phryne had requested that he perform an autopsy, he had given her a confused look.

“The cause of death seems rather evident to me, Miss Fisher,” he’d said, though his tone was not rude. David Bready was a handsome man of about forty, with a head of dark hair and warm brown eyes. He wore his beard neatly trimmed, and he seemed fit. If not for Jack, she would have considered seducing him, just to pass the time. But there was Jack, and she didn’t regret the doctor’s loss.

“And to me, doctor,” she’d confirmed with a small grimace that she followed with a steady look. “But the other evidence in this case doesn’t add up to a man who’d kill himself. I want to know whether he shows any indications of being forced to pull the trigger. Or perhaps the angle of the shot doesn’t line up with his reach.”

Although his eyebrows had risen, he’d agreed to look closely before finalizing the death certificate. Phryne had promised to stop by later that afternoon to hear his findings.

Now, she smiled at the woman behind the door, who returned the smile with one that was just a little sad and stepped back to allow her through the door.

“Ah yes, Miss Fisher, he said you’d be by.” 

“And you are?” Phryne stepped into what appeared to be a small waiting room lined with wooden chairs; a desk and filing cabinet sat facing the door. Looking around, she closed her parasol, setting it in a stand beneath a row of coat hooks, and pulled her hat off, smoothing her hair with her other hand. The doctor’s office appeared to take up the front half of the building, with a walled-off section at the back that she assumed would be his living space. Three doors led off of the waiting area; one in the back wall and one on either side. The space seemed offset, with the wall on the right standing close to the door she’d just come through and the one on the left dividing the remaining space in half. The left-hand door stood open into a clean, if shabby, examination space, but the one on the right was closed.

“Betty Frobisher,” the woman said. She was not young—Phryne estimated her to be in her early thirties—but very attractive, with Rubenesque curves and a lovely smile. “I’m David’s—Doctor Bready’s—secretary.”

Now that she’d met Miss Frobisher, Phryne was glad she hadn’t counted on the doctor’s masculine company. There was an element in the way Miss Frobisher said his name that led her to believe that if Phryne had seduced him, in however temporary a capacity, this woman’s heart might break, and Phryne made it a rule not to hurt other women with her dalliances if she could avoid it. She wondered whether the doctor knew about his secretary’s feelings, and if he did know, whether he returned them.

“I’m pleased to meet you, Miss Frobisher,” Phryne said with a smile, none of her thoughts evident on her face. 

“It’s Mrs. Frobisher, actually, but please, call me Betty. We don’t stand on ceremony around here,” she said, her voice warm.

“And you must call me Phryne.” The words were easy, but Phryne’s heart hurt for her a little. If she was married, and in love with a man who was not her husband… “Have you worked for Dr. Bready long, Betty?” Phryne asked.

“Nearly five years now,” Betty replied with a smile. “He was kind enough to take me on when my James died. Influenza,” she said quietly at Phryne’s inquiring look.

“Oh, I’m so sorry for your loss.” Phryne spoke quietly, and Betty nodded her thanks.

“Let me just show you in. David’s taken poor Will into his surgery.” She gestured toward the right-hand door and led the way, knocking quietly before twisting the knob to push it open. “David? Miss Fisher is here.”

“Send her in.” The doctor’s voice was quiet but clear, and Betty widened the door and waved Phryne in with that same sad smile she’d worn at the front door. Perhaps the sadness was for Will, then.

Phryne smiled in return and moved through the doorway. The surgery reminded her of Mac’s morgue in Melbourne, with its clean white walls and low countertops. Will Blakehurst’s body lay on an examining table, his head and bare shoulders showing above the sheet. 

“Thank you, Betty. I don’t think we have any more patients today, if you need to go home?” The doctor looked up from the papers he was working on to meet the eyes of his secretary, and Phryne thought that seducing him might have been harder than she’d thought—it was clear to her from that one glance that his feelings for Betty Frobisher weren’t that of an employer.

“I’ll stay, David,” the other woman said. “Claire will walk over here from Jemma’s house in about an hour. We’ll go have dinner then.” She met Phryne’s eyes. “My daughter. She’s twelve.”

“Ah. Well, Mrs. Healey dropped off a covered dish earlier today—you and Claire are welcome to share it with me,” he replied, and Phryne heard the thread of hope in his voice. 

“Are you sure you don’t mind?” A note of shyness had crept into the other woman’s voice.

“No, I’d like the company,” the doctor said with a smile. “It’s been a difficult day.” He glanced at the body, and just then seemed to remember that Phryne was in the room. “You are welcome to join us too, Miss Fisher,” he offered, a blush touching his cheekbones.

“Oh, no thank you, Dr. Bready—I’m expected at the Chaffeys’, though I appreciate the offer,” she said smoothly, amused. It wasn’t often that she was so completely overlooked by a man who was not a homosexual. 

“All right, I’ll leave you to it,” Betty said, and closed the door behind herself. 

Dr. Bready watched her go, then turned to Phryne. He moved around to stand beside the body, and Phryne walked to take up a place on the opposite side of the table. “I did as you asked, Miss Fisher, and performed an autopsy, looking particularly at the angle of the gunshot and at his hand and arm.” He paused, his lips tightening.

“I think you’re on to something,” he said after a moment. “There is antemortem bruising on his right hand and arm, here.” He lifted the dead man’s right hand and pointed to the shadowed marks that circled his wrists. “There is also bruising on his left shoulder.”

“As if someone held him still with one arm while forcing his hand with the other,” Phryne breathed, her eyes pitying as she looked at the young man laid out on the table. His face was slack in death, his eyes closed, but she remembered the wide-eyed expression he’d worn when his body was found. Had it been surprise?

The doctor gently tucked the man’s hand beneath the sheet and then looked at Phryne with eyes that had changed from the sadness she’d seen in them earlier in the day to a deep, burning anger.

“Will Blakehurst was a good man. If there is anything I can do to help you find his murderer...”

“I will certainly call on you, doctor,” she assured him. “If possible, please hold off on burial for one more day. My partner should be here tomorrow. If the weather won’t allow that, please take photographs to illustrate what you have discovered.”

The doctor nodded, his lips compressing with his feelings.

“Thank you for your help,” she said. “I’ll be in touch.”

* * *

The kitchen in the Chaffey’s house was, as Phryne had noticed before, good-sized and efficient. Mrs. Turner, the cook, ran a tight ship, even with eyes red from crying.

“Will Blakehurst was a good man,” she said as she fixed a pair of tea trays. “He never did any harm to anyone. And poor Caroline must be beside herself with grief.”

“Is that his fiancée? Caroline…”

“Oh, yes, Caroline Frank.” The older woman nodded briskly. “She works in the pressing house. Lovely young thing.”

Phryne made a note of the woman’s name in her notebook. She’d pay her a call… she glanced at the clock on the kitchen wall. It was nearly suppertime and she still needed to talk with the rest of the household staff. In the morning, then.

“Mrs. Turner,” she said slowly, “can you think of anyone who’d want to hurt Will?”

“Oh my goodness, no,” Mrs. Turner said, surprised. “Will was kind to everyone. Even those who might have envied him his status in the house didn’t dislike him.” 

She set a plate of tiny sandwiches on the tea tray, and Phryne had a momentary wish for a plate of Mr. Butler’s ham, cheese, and mustard pickle triangles. And for the man for whom they were usually served, if she was honest.

“Will grew up here, you know. His parents worked the vines, and Will and Rob ran wild around the place.” Mrs. Turner smiled in reminiscence. “Cheeky little scraps they were, too. But Will took to schooling far more quickly than the other kiddies on the station. He had a gift with numbers, Will did, and Mr. Chaffey noticed. He helped Will get through university and brought him on as secretary when he was through.”

“I didn’t realize,” Phryne said softly. “Is that Rob Jeffreys?”

“Oh yes,” Mrs. Turner responded. “Thick as thieves, those two. Both of them grew up into honest, hardworking men, but the tales I could tell of their childhood…” she chuckled, the sound turning into a quiet sob. She raised her eyes to meet Phryne’s. “Who would want to do such a thing to our Will, Miss Fisher?”

“I don’t know yet,” Phryne said, reaching out to cover the other woman’s work-worn hand with her own, “but I intend to find out.”

For a moment, Mrs. Turner turned her hand and squeezed Phryne’s, tears brimming in her eyes. Then she tightened her lips and released Phryne’s hand to complete the tray assembly.

“I’d better get this out to Missus Chaffey,” she said. “I’ll be back in a moment, and we’ll get your tea sorted.”

“I can take it myself, Mrs. Turner—” Phryne offered, pushing to her feet, but the horrified look on the older woman’s face made her break off.

“You’ll do no such thing, miss,” she said. “You just make yourself comfortable in the front parlor, and I’ll be along in a moment.”

Meekly, Phryne did as she was bid, trailing the other woman out of the kitchen. Mrs. Turner rounded the corner to what Phryne knew was Mr. Chaffey’s office—his wife worked with him, and she must be closeted in there while her husband worked out on the station.

Continuing down the hall toward her appointed tea location, Phryne spotted Mr. Mansel, the Chaffey’s butler, seated at the head of the dining room table with the family’s silver service laid out on a white tablecloth in front of him for polishing. He was in his shirtsleeves, his jacket folded carefully over the chair beside him; the white gloves on his hands were darkened at the fingertips with silver tarnish, and he wore long protective covers for his cuffs. He had an interesting face rather than a handsome one. His jaw was square, and his nose a thin blade in a somewhat narrow face. Blond hair was combed back from his forehead, and his blue eyes were bright. Glancing up from his work, he saw Phryne in the doorway and immediately pushed to his feet.

“Miss Fisher!” He didn’t smile, but his tone was welcoming. “Is there something I can assist you with?”

“Please, don’t stop on my account,” she said, waving him back down. “I did want to speak to you about Mr. Blakehurst—would you mind terribly if I took my tea here? I wouldn’t want to interrupt your work.” 

She saw a flash of something on his face as he seated himself again, picking up his polishing cloth and the gravy boat he’d been working on—disdain, perhaps? It reminded her of the pinched look her Aunt P gave her when she’d done something her aunt considered low class.

“Of course, miss,” was what he said.

“Splendid!” Phryne smiled—just as she would have at her aunt—and settled herself in a chair that allowed her to see the door. “I’ll just flag Mrs. Turner down as she brings the tray.” She leaned forward, whispering conspiratorially, “I offered to bring it myself, but she wouldn’t have it.”

“Of course she wouldn’t,” he replied, surprise in his tone. “You are our guest.”

“And your care has been much appreciated.” Phryne settled in, one eye on the door. “So how long did you know Will Blakehurst?”

“William was here when I arrived,” Mr. Mansel said, beginning to polish again. “So… three years, or thereabouts.” His words were matter-of-fact and unemotional. “He was a good man, though it wouldn’t surprise me if he had been the one stealing from the Chaffeys.” He glanced up at Phryne. “An unpopular opinion, I know, but our William had ideas above his station.”

Phryne was about to ask him to elaborate when Mrs. Turner appeared in the doorway with her tea tray. 

“Ah, Mrs. Turner, you found me!” Phryne turned with a smile. “Mr. Mansel is kind enough to allow me to kill two birds with one stone and have my tea while he and I talk.”

“Well, that sounds like an excellent idea to me, miss,” Mrs. Turner responded, bringing the tray in and emptying it efficiently in front of Phryne. “The sooner you get your interviews done, the sooner we’ll come to the end of this sorry tale.”

“Would you care to join me in a cuppa, Mr. Mansel?” Phryne watched him as she asked the question; he’d given indications of being particularly traditional among the Chaffey servants, and she wondered how deep that ran. He was also the only one so far who’d expressed anything other than liking for Will Blakehurst.

“Thank you, no, miss,” he responded, his voice civil. But she’d seen it, that momentary tightening of his features at the suggestion.

“Then I will just have to gorge myself.” Phryne responded with a light laugh. “This looks marvelous, Mrs. Turner. Thank you.” 

“You are very welcome, miss. Enjoy,” Mrs. Turner gave Phryne a cordial nod and bustled off, empty tray in hand.

Phryne lifted the teapot’s lid, checking the color of the brew inside, and finding it satisfactory, lifted the pot itself and poured out a cup. As she prepared a small plate of sandwiches—they appeared to be chicken salad of some kind—and scones, she glanced up to Mr. Mansel.

“Please, do continue, Mr. Mansel,” she urged him. “You were saying that Mr. Blakehurst had ideas above his station? What did you mean by that?”

Mr. Mansel frowned quickly, as if marshalling his thoughts. He was perhaps in his late forties, Phryne thought, and he’d avoided the pot belly that many men gained; although he was thin, his shoulders and arms seemed quite powerful through the camouflaging cloth of his shirtsleeves.

“You know that he was born on the station?” At Phryne’s nod, he went on. “His parents worked in the vineyard, doing the manual labor of planting and harvesting. Had he aspired to service, perhaps as a footman or stablehand, that would have been a reasonable desire. To presume an education and secretarial work… well, it doesn’t follow. A man is who he begins, miss.”

Phryne took a moment to take a bite of sandwich—the chicken was curried with delicious spices—as she marshalled her temper. Swallowing, she set the sandwich down and wiped her fingers. She struggled to keep her tone nonjudgemental when she spoke, striving for the unemotional, even understanding tone that Jack employed when speaking to people with horrid outlooks on life.

“You don’t believe that men can better themselves, then?” She asked, lifting the sandwich to take another bite as she watched Mr. Mansel.

“I think that there’s only so far a man’s blood will take him,” the butler agreed. “And William, bright though he was, had exceeded that boundary.” He shook his head, setting aside the now-gleaming gravy boat and lifting a teapot from the array of as-yet-unpolished silverware. “It was only a matter of time before he faltered.”

“I see,” Phryne replied. “And did you think that you were better qualified to act as Mr. Chaffey’s secretary, then?”

“Oh no, miss!” Mr. Mansel’s surprise seemed genuine. “I haven’t enough of a head for numbers. I can manage household finances, but those of the whole station would be beyond me.” He shook his head. “No, I only hoped that when William’s inability to handle the load was discovered, he would accept it and take another position in the household.” His hand moving rhythmically against the rounded side of the teapot, he glanced up at Phryne. “I would have taken him on as an apprentice, if I’d had the opportunity. He would have made a fine butler.”

“Interesting,” Phryne said, lifting her teacup to her mouth in an effort to disguise the sneer she felt tipping at the edges of her mouth. “And what is your background, Mr. Mansel?”

“Oh, I know whereof I speak, miss,” the man replied. “I was born in Sydney, son of a tailor. I took a footman’s position in a prominent household there, and was trained by the butler. A life in service is far better and more rewarding than following in my father’s footsteps would have been.”

Phryne took this in as she drank her tea. She couldn’t quite tell whether she just didn’t like Mr. Mansel or if he truly was as suspicious as he sounded. Perhaps Jack would be able to help her work it out. 

Thinking, Phryne took up a small scone; a small lidded pot proved to be filled with marmalade, and she broke the scone open to spread the jam inside. Biting into the scone, Phryne was unable to suppress a hum of pleasure as the flavor of the jam hit her tongue. Just wait till Jack tasted Mrs. Turner’s cooking. He’d be doubly glad he came to help her.

“Oh my goodness, this is divine,” she said. 

Mr. Mansel’s stoic exterior cracked just a little, as his lips turned up in a small smile. “Mrs. Turner has a gift.”

“She certainly does,” Phryne agreed. She was debating whether licking jam off of her finger would offend the proper man, and decided that she didn’t care. When her finger was clean, she went on. “Is there anyone you can think of who might wish Mr. Blakehurst harm?” 

“Not a one, miss.” The butler’s response was swift. “William was well-liked. He was good at communicating with the field workers as well as with those in management.”

“Well, if you do think of anyone, please let me know as soon as possible.” Raising her cup, she looked over at him. “Oh! I almost forgot to mention. My partner, Senior Detective Inspector Jack Robinson, will be arriving tomorrow evening, I believe. Is there room in the house for him, or shall I arrange a place at the hotel?”

“I am certain that we can accommodate him,” Mr. Mansel said with a nod. “Are Mr. and Mrs. Chaffey aware of his arrival?”

“Not yet,” Phryne admitted. “I’ve not seen them since setting his travel arrangements in motion.”

“Not to worry,” the butler said with a nod. “I will let them know as soon as I’m finished here.”

“Thank you very much, Mr. Mansel,” Phryne said, pushing back from the table and rising to her feet. She waved the butler down when he copied her motion. “I appreciate you talking with me.”

“Of course, miss,” Mansel said, ignoring her hand waving and continuing to stand. “If there’s anything else you need, please don’t hesitate to ask.”

With a grin, Phryne picked up a final sandwich and sashayed out into the hall. She needed to organize her notes and determine who to interview tomorrow.

* * *

“Jack!” Phryne was curled up in the telephone nook again—it really was a comfortable spot. Perhaps she should try to replicate it at home, though there were few people outside of Melbourne with whom she wanted to spend time on the telephone.

“Hello, Miss Fisher.” She could hear the caress in his voice, his voice a low, welcoming rumble. “You have been busy today. I understand I’m leaving for Mildura Station in the morning.”

“Come now, Jack, it’ll be fun! And I really do appreciate your help.” She could tell that he was only half exasperated; the other half was excitement, she was certain. “I had a chance to sample the Mildura Vineyard product at dinner this evening, and it was rather lovely, though I much prefer whiskey. And Mrs. Turner, the housekeeper, is a _very_ good cook. Almost up to Mr. Butler’s standards.”

“And there’s a case?” Jack’s dry tone made her roll her eyes. 

“Well, yes, of course there’s a case. I’ve done some interviewing today, and I plan to do more tomorrow, before you arrive. What arrangements did Dot make for your trip?”

“I have a ticket on an early train to Swan Hill—traveling first class; I assume that was at your direction?” 

“Of course, Jack,” she said. “I want you to be comfortable!”

“And then on from Swan Hill to Mildura; not first class, Mrs. Collins was sad to report, as no first-class section exists on that train.” Phryne clucked in sympathy. “If all goes well, I should be at Mildura Station around midafternoon.” 

“Excellent! I’ll meet you at the train station.” Phryne’s shoulders rose and fell quickly, an outward sign of her pleasure that he’d be joining her.

“I understand that I’m to pick up a basket at Wardlow on my way to the station.” Jack’s humor came through in his tone. “Am I bringing you caviar and champagne to aid you through the wilds of the interior?”

“Oh, Jack, that basket has an important role to play,” Phryne said lightly. “It contains a certain something that I neglected to pack because you weren’t going to be here with me.”

“Ah,” Jack responded, and Phryne smiled. She knew that he tried not to think too hard about her family planning device. It was not entirely legal, but he’d been turning a blind eye to her possession of it since well before they’d become lovers, and now it was to his benefit to aid and abet her in its use. It was one of the things that she appreciated most about him. He believed whole-heartedly in justice, but wasn’t eager to prosecute those whose crimes hurt no one but themselves.

“Well, I am pleased to be of service,” he continued, after clearing his throat softly. He went on, his tone teasing, “So no need for me to bring you furs and feathers, or a few silk gowns to wear while you investigate?”

“The truth is…” She paused. Her intention had been to answer him with the same levity, but the words that escaped her were a deeper truth. Phryne’s voice when she spoke was a caress. “‘I don’t want sunbursts or marble halls, I just want you.’” 

She heard the soft catch of Jack’s breath. He was silent for a long moment, and she pictured his face, his eyebrows knitting slightly as he searched his remarkable brain for the source of the quote. She sat quietly, letting him think—that had been far closer to a declaration of her feelings than she’d come before, and she was surprised that she wasn’t more upset with herself for admitting to it. But this was Jack, and she had never feared that he would try to take control if she were to hand him her heart. 

When he spoke, it was almost as softly as she’d spoken. “‘Oh, dreams will be very sweet now,’” he murmured, and Phryne bit her lip softly at the love she could hear in the words.

“Besides, Jack,” she responded after a quick breath, her tone breezy again, “I promise to make the trip worth your while.”

“I have no doubt of that,” he said, “and I’m certain that the journey will allow me plenty of time to consider what I need as repayment.”

“I like the sound of that,” Phryne murmured, images of what he might request flashing through her mind and sending a pulse of desire down her body. After a silent moment in which she imagined that Jack was also considering those options, she went on. “I went looking for poetry in the Chaffey’s library last night.” 

“And how did you get on?” Jack’s voice was amused, but also a little wary.

“Not very well at all, though I did eventually stumble across a small book of Shakespeare’s poetry.” Phryne lifted the book, a smile flirting at the corners of her mouth. “There’s a poem here that very much reminded me of you. _Venus and Adonis_ —do you know it?”

“I do…” he said slowly, obviously searching his memory. “As I recall, Adonis is killed by a boar—should I be frightened?” 

“Of course not, Jack!” Phryne caroled, opening the book. “The story is rather bleak in the end, as you say, but it begins promisingly enough. Venus pursues Adonis, bent on winning his love, but he says he doesn’t believe in it. She apparently feels that she can convince him that he needs to give her love a chance—the poem is very long, and she really should allow him to get a word in edgewise every once in a while—but he does eventually come ‘round.”

“How on earth did this remind you of me?”

“Well, you must admit that I pursued you in the early days of our association, Jack.” Phryne’s humor shone through in her tone. “And you were rather difficult to persuade to my way of thinking. Why, it took my flying off to England before you—”

“What was that you said about Venus letting Adonis get a word in edgewise?”

Phryne’s small smile turned into a grin. She loved it when her reserved inspector sassed her. “I _am_ sorry, Jack—did you have something to add?”

“Only that I rather felt our pursuit was a mutual thing, Miss Fisher, leading us in circles but inching ever closer to one another.” His voice brushed along her skin, velvety and low, and Phryne shivered.

“It’s just as well,” she responded, her voice gone husky. “As this really isn’t one of the bard’s better bits of verse. But I did manage to find a few small tidbits that I thought you might enjoy.”

“Did you now?”

“Oh yes, Jack—and they’re even more… interesting out of context, I think. Shall we see if you agree?”

“I’m prepared,” he said, “let’s hear what you’ve found.”

“All right then.” Phryne tucked the telephone handset against her shoulder and sat back against the alcove wall, book on her knees and stockinged toes warm against the cushions. “Here’s the first one—Venus is trying to get Adonis to stop and tarry a while with her.”

“Who wouldn’t want to tarry with Venus?” Jack said wryly.

“ _Here come and sit, where never serpent hisses,_ ” Phryne began, ignoring his comment.  
_“And being set, I'll smother thee with kisses;_  
_And yet not cloy thy lips with loathed satiety,_  
_But rather famish them amid their plenty,_  
_Making them red and pale with fresh variety,_  
_Ten kisses short as one, one long as twenty:_  
_A summer's day will seem an hour but short,_  
_Being wasted in such time-beguiling sport.”_

By the end of the quote, her voice was low and intimate, the thought of kissing Jack “long as twenty” capturing her imagination. Into the pause that followed her recitation, Jack spoke, and his voice was rough. She hoped that he was thinking about long, deep kisses, too.

“Well,” he began, “I can see what you mean that she doesn’t let him speak.” He cleared his throat. “I’m rather surprised that it took him so long to take her up on that offer.”

“Oh, he didn’t take her up on it, not till she plays dead about halfway through the poem. Which,” she went on, “is more than two hundred stanzas, mostly of Venus bewailing the fact that Adonis is cruel and cold.”

“Good lord,” Jack replied.

“Exactly.” Phryne laughed. “But don’t worry, Jack—I’ve chosen one more stanza for you to take with you to dreamland tonight. And tomorrow night, in person, we can discuss one or two of the other lines that caught my eye.”

He laughed softly. “If I know you, Miss Fisher, it’s unlikely that the stanza you’ve chosen will lead to a restful night for me.”

“Well, I never said that, did I, Jack? But I do hope that it’s stimulating, all the same,” she purred, delighted that he knew her so well. “Here it is.” She turned to the other page she’d marked in the small book and licked her lips before beginning.

“ _‘Fondling,’ she saith, ‘since I have hemm’d thee here_  
_Within the circuit of this ivory pale,_  
_I’ll be a park, and thou shalt be my deer;_  
_Feed where thou wilt, on mountain or in dale:_  
_Graze on my lips; and if those hills be dry,_  
_Stray lower, where the pleasant fountains lie.’_ ”

Jack made a choking sound, and Phryne broke off to ask solicitously, “Are you all right, Jack?”

“Oh yes, of course,” Jack hurried to say.

“Well, thank goodness for that.” Phryne couldn’t quite keep the laughter out of her tone. “Then I’ll bid you good night, darling—and I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Good night,” Jack said quietly. “Be careful tomorrow.”

“I will, Jack,” Phryne replied, charmed that he would ask it. “Travel safely.”

“Try not to uncover any more murders before I get there, will you?”

“Darling, you know as well as I do that murder finds me,” Phryne shot back lightly. “Now go, get a good rest. Tomorrow will be a long day, but you’ll be here at the end of it.”

“Until I see you, then,” Jack replied, and she could almost see his lips tilt in that not-really-there smile that she so loved.

“Until I see you,” she agreed. Hanging up the telephone, she sighed. Tomorrow couldn’t come soon enough.


	4. Selma Lagerlöf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phryne continues to investigate the murder that she just happens to be adjacent to while waiting for Jack to arrive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the quote: It is a strange thing to come home. While yet on the journey, you cannot at all realize how strange it will be. –Selma Lagerlöf

Phryne woke refreshed the next morning, feeling an undercurrent of excitement as she went about readying herself for the day. _Jack would arrive this afternoon._ She found that she anticipated his presence both on a personal level—the days she’d been away had only made her appetite for him sharper—and on a professional one. It was far more interesting to work a case with someone with quick wits, and she found Jack’s company particularly stimulating because he followed her leaps of logic so easily.

As she left her room, she spent a moment regretting that the clothing she’d brought along was rather on the pedestrian side—the fabrics were hardy rather than filmy, and she wanted to look her best—and then dismissed the thought as unworthy of her. She was dressed for the work at hand, and if Jack didn’t like it, well, he could just take it off of her. A sly smile tipped her lips at the thought.

At breakfast, which she took in the kitchen with Mrs. Turner since she’d missed the rest of the household, Phryne reviewed her notes. She wanted to speak with the day maid she’d met the day before, and with her victim’s friend Rob Jeffreys. And if possible, Blakehurst’s fiancee, Caroline Frank. Glancing at her watch, she figured she had several hours to track those three people down before she needed to be at the train station.

“Mrs. Turner,” she said, slathering another slice of toast with the woman’s excellent preserves, “might I borrow the car to pick up my inspector friend at the train today?”

“Oh, miss, we can have someone fetch him!” Mrs. Turner gave her a surprised look. “No need for you to put yourself out.”

“It’s quite all right,” Phryne reassured her. “I enjoy driving, and I do want to be the one to greet him.” She sent a quick wink at the housekeeper. “He is a rather _special_ friend.”

“Ah!” Mrs. Turner’s eyes twinkled as she took Phryne’s meaning. “Well, then, of course you may use the car. The keys are just there,” she nodded to a small cupboard beside the back door. 

“You are a gem, Mrs. Turner,” Phryne said, taking a bite of her toast. Today’s jam was strawberry, with a bite of something else. “Mmm, what is in these preserves, if you don’t mind my asking? They are delicious.”

“Strawberries and rhubarb,” the older woman blushed with pleasure. 

“Rhubarb! Of course,” Phryne took another bite, savoring the melding of sweet and sour.

“I am glad you like them,” Mrs. Turner replied. 

“Jack—the inspector—is going to adore you,” Phryne replied with a smile. “He does like sweets.”

Before Mrs. Turner could reply, the kitchen door swung open and the day maid, Brenda, stepped through carrying a tray. 

“Good morning!” Phryne smiled at the younger woman.

“Miss,” Brenda replied in a shy voice. She gave Phryne a small smile as she moved across to the sink to unload what looked like the remains of someone’s breakfast tray. Phryne contemplated the girl, whose motions were efficient and practiced.

Brenda was young, not even twenty, Phryne would guess. Her warm brown skin was clear, and she’d pulled her dark hair back into a braided knot at the base of her neck. Idly, Phryne wondered whether the girl, who was obviously of Aboriginal heritage, was related to the boy who’d brought them news of Will Blakehurst’s death the day before.

“Would it be all right if I asked you some questions, Brenda?” Phryne kept her voice casual. “If it won’t put you off of your duties?”

“Of course!” Mrs. Turner replied, as the girl looked up with surprise. “Here, Brenda, you sit and prepare these apples for me. I’m going to make turnovers tonight.” The older woman pulled a basket of apples from the sideboard and set them on the table.

“Yes, Mrs. Turner.” Brenda wiped her hands on the apron she wore and took out a small knife and two bowls. Settling herself across the table from Phryne, she lifted an apple and set the knife to it. Phryne watched, fascinated, as the peel ribboned out into the bowl beneath it, one long line of swirling red and white.

“How well did you know William Blakehurst, Brenda?” Phryne asked the question gently.

“We weren’t close, if that’s what you mean, miss,” Brenda responded, her voice quiet. “But he never bothered me.”

Phryne thought on that for a moment. “Bothering” by the men of a household was, she feared, one danger of the life of a young woman in service.

“I hope no one else has bothered you, either,” Mrs. Turner said crisply. “If they do, you come to me, you hear?”

“Yes, Mrs. Turner,” Brenda said, white teeth flashing as she smiled at the older woman.

“What was your impression of him, then?” Phryne went on.

“He was a good man. He was kind, and he didn’t cause trouble.” Brenda set the peeled apple in the second bowl and picked up another. She seemed to be gathering her courage; after a moment, her hands stilled, and she lifted her head to meet Phryne’s eyes. “He was grateful to Mr. Chaffey for giving him work. He liked to work, I think.”

“I see,” Phryne said, pulling out her small notebook. Really, it would be helpful when Jack arrived and could keep his own notes. “And do you think that he was the type of man to kill himself?”

Brenda shook her head, her hands beginning their dance with apple and knife again. “No, miss, he was too happy. He’d met Miss Caroline, and he enjoyed his work—I can’t imagine him throwing away all that.”

“Is there anyone you can think of who might have wished him harm, then?”

Brenda pursed her lips and glanced sideways at Mrs. Turner. “I’m not one to gossip, miss.” 

Phryne smothered a smile. Whether that was true or not, Mrs. Turner had nodded emphatically where she stood mixing dough. “This isn’t gossip. I believe that Mr. Blakehurst was murdered, and any direction you can give me will help me find who killed him.”

The younger woman’s eyes had flashed up to Phryne’s, shock written across her face. “Murdered, miss? Here?”

“I believe so, yes.” Phryne solemnly repeated the assertion.

Brenda swallowed hard, then looked down at the apples again. “Caroline had another fella before Will—Mr. Blakehurst, that is.” Brenda’s cheeks flushed, and Phryne wondered whether she’d admired the victim; her heart hurt at the thought. “Caroline’s old fella wasn’t too thrilled when she broke it off.”

“Ah,” Phryne said, taking a bite of her toast and chewing contemplatively. “Did Caroline break it of with…” she let the question trail off, hoping that Brenda would fill in the missing name.

“Marcus,” Brenda said, on cue. “Marcus Greenwood. He works the orchard.”

Phryne nodded and made a note. “Did she break things off with Marcus because of Will?”

“I don’t think so, miss,” Brenda said, with another sidelong glance at Mrs. Turner. “But it wasn’t long after that she started seeing Will.”

“And Marcus wasn’t pleased, I take it?”

Brenda shook her head. “He said some nasty things about Will, and about Caroline too.” She frowned. “I think he still cared for her, though. He just didn’t want to see her with someone else.”

“That happens,” Phryne commented.

Mrs. Turner tsked. “Only boys talk badly about women they say they care for,” she said, her voice hard. “Marcus Greenwood needs to grow up and learn how to be a gentleman.”

“That’s why Caroline broke it off with him, I think,” Brenda said, her mouth twisting into a disapproving frown. “He thinks that his fists are the best way to solve an argument, and she had to weather the gossip about his fights too many times.” 

“Sounds like I need to add Marcus Greenwood to my list of people to speak with,” Phryne said, marking his name in her book with a star. “Is there anything else you can think of to tell me, Brenda?”

“No, miss,” Brenda said. “I hope you find whoever did this. Will didn’t deserve it.”

Phryne nodded solemnly, and closed her notebook. “All right, then. Thank you for speaking with me. If you think of anything else, please don’t hesitate to tell me.” Brenda nodded, and Phryne stood. “Breakfast was lovely, as usual, Mrs. Turner. I’ll be back this afternoon for the car.”

“Of course, miss,” Mrs. Turner replied, and Phryne could hear the strain in her voice. “Anything you need to find this devil.”

 

* * *

 

The walk past the vineyard to the workers’ cottages was a pretty one. It was early enough in the day that the heat hadn’t fully set in, and Phryne could see workers tending the vines in the field as she made her way to speak to Rob Jeffreys.

She stopped twice to ask directions, both times choosing women who seemed to be going about the business of shopping or caring for children. It was clear by their body language that they felt safe here, or at least, as safe as a woman ever feels alone on the street. They directed her, eventually, to a small cottage in a row of similar houses. Window boxes provided a bright splash of color to either side of the front door, and though the front garden was packed dirt, someone had carefully drawn a hopscotch board using a sharp stick, and a couple of pale rocks lay nearby, ready to be thrown.

Phryne’s smile was melancholy as she remembered creating something similar for Janey more than once. Janey had kept a smooth white rock in her pocket to use as a marker; she’d found it on the riverbank and scrubbed it clean, calling it her “pearl.” 

Shaking off the moment, Phryne stepped up to the front door and knocked briskly. A woman’s voice came from within, “Hang on a tick!”

When the door opened, it was to a tall woman with pale skin and dark brown hair tied back in a messy bun. Her eyes were very green in a face that was awash with freckles, and she held a small child—a boy, Phryne thought, though she really couldn’t be sure—who sucked two of his fingers as he regarded Phryne with solemn blue eyes.

“May I help you?” The woman straightened, both hands going to support the child, her shoulder stiffening.

“Good morning,” Phryne tried a smile, “My name is Phryne Fisher. I’m looking into Will Blakehurst’s death.” She pulled a card from her purse and offered it to the woman. “I’d like to speak to Rob Jeffreys, if I may.”

The woman took the card and read it, then looked back up at Phryne, her expression serious and a little sad. Phryne did her best to look good-natured and innocent.

“I thought Will killed himself. Why do we need a lady detective?” Her voice was lovely, Phryne thought absently, low and warm, even through her caution. The little boy tilted his head to lay it on his mother’s shoulder, and she returned her hand, Phryne’s card between two fingers, to absently rub his back.

Phryne shook her head slightly. “I suppose you haven’t heard, then. Dr. Bready agrees that Mr. Blakehurst was most likely murdered.” She offered a small, understanding smile as the woman stilled, sucking a breath between her teeth. “I’m trying to find out who would do this to him, and why.”

The woman blinked quickly, tears hanging in her eyes, and she nodded jerkily before stepping back from the door. “Come in, then, Miss Fisher,” she said. “Rob will want to help.”

“Thank you,” Phryne said. “And you are?”

“Martha Jeffreys,” the woman said, reaching to take the hand Phryne extended as she stepped into the cottage. “Rob’s wife.” 

The single room of the cottage was neat as a pin, and a little girl laid on her stomach facing the wall to the right. Her attention was fixed upon a simple, handmade dollhouse, and she sang quietly to herself as she moved the dollies through their day.

“Please, have a seat,” Mrs. Jeffreys gestured to the small seating area. “I’ll just get Rob.” She moved toward one of the two doors set in the wall to Phryne’s left, then hesitated, turning her attention back to Phryne. “My husband is shattered by Will’s death, Miss Fisher. When he thought Will had killed himself, though…” She paused, then shook her head. “Part of me is glad that at least he’ll be spared that.”

With a nod, she opened the door and disappeared inside, closing it behind herself. Phryne took the opportunity to look around the cottage’s open living space. The sofa sat against the front wall, a single chair angled beside it, and the back wall was a kitchen with open shelves above the range and a small pantry closet at one end. Between the two sat a small, square table with four chairs and a wooden high chair.

“Who are you?”

Phryne jumped lightly, and turned to face the small voice. The girl had swiveled to sit up, and she was regarding Phryne now with big brown eyes.

“My name is Miss Fisher,” Phryne responded. She was never certain how to talk to children, so she tended to just treat them as slightly shorter adults. “What’s your name?”

“I’m Anna Jeffreys,” the girl said stoutly. “You’re pretty. Do you want to see my dollhouse?”

“Well, thank you,” Phryne replied, charmed a little in spite of herself. “I can see your dollhouse already, so I’ll just sit right here.” She pulled out a chair at the table and sat facing Anna, crossing her legs. 

Anna nodded her satisfaction before turning to show off her toy. “My papa and Uncle Will made it for me. It has two storeys, and the bedrooms are upstairs, see?” Phryne leaned in, her elbows on her knees, as she was given the tour of the small house. The furnishings had been carved by hand, she saw, and carefully smoothed so as to avoid any splinters. It had likely taken the two men months to complete, and Phryne marveled at the thought of that kind of friendship and devotion.

She was just opening her mouth to ask a question about the dollies themselves—obviously store-bought, and likely very dear in a household like this—when the bedroom door opened and Rob came out, followed by Martha, who still carried the baby.

Rob was a good-looking man. Today, his dark red hair was mussed and his hazel eyes were reddened, but Phryne could see the power in his broad shoulders and muscular legs. He wore a white linen shirt and heavy canvas trousers held up by braces. The shirt was wrinkled, as if he’d been sleeping in it, and his feet were bare.

“Anna, go outside, lovey,” he said, his voice low and controlled.

“But papa, I was showing Miss Fisher my dollhouse!” Anna’s voice held the edge of a whine.

“It’s a very beautiful dollhouse, Anna,” Phryne said smoothly, straightening up, her eyes on Rob. “But I do need to speak to your father.”

“Anna, now please.” Her father’s voice held a command, and Anna clearly understood it. She sighed heavily and made her way to the door. As she passed him, he skimmed a hand over her hair, and she glanced up at him; his smile seemed to ease her. “I’ll play dollies with you later, all right?”

The little girl’s smile was a beam of sunlight, and she nodded and heaved open the door. After a moment, they could hear her singing a counting song as she, presumably, began a game of hopscotch.

“Now, what’s this you say about Will being murdered?” The low, calm voice was gone, the question grating out of Rob Jeffreys’ throat.

 

* * *

 

Forty-five minutes later, Phryne let herself out of the Jeffreys’ home. Anna had moved to the shade of a nearby tree, where she and another girl were weaving chains of small flowers. She didn’t look up, and Phryne decided not to interrupt her to say goodbye. She’d left that small family with a sense of hope that they hadn’t had before, when they’d thought Will Blakehurst had killed himself. Finding Will’s murderer wouldn’t bring him back, but it would provide a sense of completion for those who had loved him.

Walking purposefully, she headed toward the cluster of buildings that sat between the workers’ cottages and the vineyard itself. She intended to speak with Caroline Frank next; if Will’s fiancee was working today, she’d be in the pressing house, and if she wasn’t, someone there could give Phryne directions on how to find her.

As Phryne approached, she was amazed once again at the size of the operation. At Maiden Creek, they’d had one building in which all of the pressing, preserving, and bottling happened. This was considerably larger, likely because they made more than one kind of wine. She’d sampled Mildura’s products—both alcoholic and not—many times before coming here, as had most everyone in Victoria. The station’s fruits were ubiquitous around the state, and their wines nearly as easy to find. 

Stepping through the doorway of the closest building, Phryne inhaled the scent of oak and fermenting grapes that characterized a winery. Glancing around, she headed toward the first worker she saw; it was the man who’d made her think of St. Nicholas the day they’d found Will Blakehurst’s body.

“Mr. Jamieson, I believe?” Phryne held out her hand as she approached, and recognition lit the man’s eyes as he came to meet her. “Phryne Fisher,” she said.

“I remember who y’are,” Jamieson responded, shaking her hand. His fingers dwarfed hers, larger even than Jack’s, and his skin was roughly calloused from his work. “I heard, too, that the doc says Will was murdered. That right?”

“It does appear so.” Phryne’s words were bluntly honest.

Jamieson’s mouth firmed into a straight line, and even through the weight of his beard, she could see that he’d clenched his teeth. When he spoke, his voice was a low, dangerous growl.

“You’ll get whatever help you need to find that boy’s killer, Miss Fisher,” he vowed. “Will was a good kid. Smart. We were all proud of him.”

Phryne nodded. “I appreciate your help, Mr. Jamieson. And if you think of anything that I need to know, please contact me.” She handed him a card. “For now, though, I’m hoping you can help me find Caroline Frank.”

Jamieson sighed as he took the card from Phryne’s fingers. “Caro’s not working today,” he said quietly. “She’s pretty broke up.”

“I don’t mean to bring her more grief, but I do need to speak to her.” Phryne kept her voice gentle.

Jamieson’s nod was understanding. “Caro’s a good girl, and she’s had some hard knocks. Be gentle with her.”

“You have my word, Mr. Jamieson.”

 

* * *

 

The walk from the winery buildings down into town, to where Caroline Frank rented a room in a large house, was not as pleasant as the walk to Rob Jeffreys’ home had been. The sun was out in force, and the heat of the day radiated from the road as Phryne made her way up onto the house’s small porch. The woman who answered Phryne’s knock was in her fifties, her graying hair pulled back from her face, and her dress faded from many washings. Dark brown eyes looked Phryne up and down, and her lips twisted sourly.

“Sorry, we don’t have any open rooms just now,” she said, not sounding sorry at all, and began to close the door.

Phryne caught the edge of the door and smiled brightly. “I’m not here to rent a room, actually. Miss Phryne Fisher,” she held out her other hand, “I’m here to see Caroline Frank.”

The woman’s eyes narrowed, and she glanced first at the hand Phryne held on the door, its blue crocheted glove a stark contrast to the whitewash, and then to the hand she held out. Dismissing the handshake, she raised her eyes back to Phryne’s. “Miss Frank is ill.”

“It’s very important that I see her,” Phryne said. “I’m here on behalf of the Chaffeys.” It wasn’t a lie, really, she told herself. Her hosts had brought her here, after all.

Pursing her lips, the woman gave a short nod and stepped back, gesturing for Phryne to enter. “Wait in there,” she said, indicating a small parlor. “I’ll tell Miss Frank that you’re here.”

“Thank you, Mrs….” Phryne raised an inquiring eyebrow.

“Brown,” the woman said shortly, before turning away to climb the staircase to the upper floors.

“Nice to meet you too, Mrs. Brown,” Phryne murmured, turning to the parlor. It was slightly shabby but scrupulously clean, its blue-and-cream color scheme cool and welcoming in the hot afternoon. A small upright piano sat against one wall, and a game table sat opposite, a deck of cards sitting squarely in its center alongside a cribbage board. Two sofas faced each other in front of a small wood stove, and Phryne settled herself on one of them, picking up a relatively recent copy of a fashion magazine that sat on the coffee table.

Phryne sat in silence, paging through the magazine, for fifteen minutes. She heard Mrs. Brown come down the stairs, but the woman didn’t come back to the parlor. Phryne couldn’t say that she minded, though she made a note to ask Jack whether he felt that they should interview her. Perhaps the woman would respond better to a handsome detective inspector than to a lady detective.

When a lovely young woman appeared in the parlor doorway, Phryne stood, dropping the magazine gently to the table.

“Miss Frank?” At the younger woman’s nod, Phryne approached, holding out one of her cards. “I am so sorry for your loss,” she said, “and I apologize for intruding at such a difficult time. My name is Phryne Fisher; I’ve been asked to look into your fiance’s death.”

Taking the card, Caroline Frank read it, then looked back at Phryne. She was small, her body delicately built, and her blue eyes were large in her pale face; she wore her yellow-blonde hair in a bob similar to Phryne’s, and her dress was fashionable, if made from inexpensive fabric.

She drew a shaky breath. “Will was murdered, wasn’t he?”

“I’m afraid so,” Phryne confirmed, and the younger woman sighed and moved into the room, her motions slow and careful, as if her whole body hurt. She seated herself on the opposite sofa and Phryne followed, settling back down and pulling out her small notebook. “You don’t sound surprised.”

Miss Frank shook her head. “I’m not, really. Will wouldn’t have killed himself. He loved me—” her voice broke slightly, and she cleared her throat. “He loved me too much for that.”

“I believe that you’re right,” Phryne responded, earning a grateful glance from the younger woman. “But whoever killed him and wrote that note seemed to know that his reason would have to be tied to you.”

“What do you mean?” Miss Frank was shocked by this, Phryne could tell—her face was very expressive.

“The note claimed that Mr. Blakehurst had been stealing from his employer—”

“I don’t believe that!”

“—so that you and he could start your life together.” Phryne leveled a long look at Miss Frank, who colored lightly as she realized her rudeness. “As it happens, I tend to agree with you. Everything I’ve heard about your fiance points to his being an honest man.”

“He was, in every way,” Miss Frank said, her voice fervent. “Will was everything a man should be. Kind and honest and strong…” Her eyes filled with tears. “Who would do this to him, Miss Fisher?” The words were a cry from her heart, and Phryne felt the pain of them.

“I don’t know yet, but I intend to find out.” Leaning forward, Phryne held Miss Frank’s eyes. “I need you to tell me anything you might know about who could have done this. Did Will mention anyone who worried him? Did he talk with you about the missing money?”

“No… I mean, yes, he talked about the money being missing, but he didn’t say anything about who he thought might be taking it.” Miss Frank twisted her handkerchief between her hands. “And everyone loved Will—” she broke off. “Oh, oh no,” she breathed. Phryne watched her face, saw the hardening of her features as determination set in.

Miss Frank’s eyes rose to meet Phryne’s, and their blue was icy. “There was one person who didn’t love Will.” Her lips twisted, and her chin dimpled as if she was holding back tears, but she spoke through the emotion, her voice wavering. “I used to date a man named Marcus Greenwood. I broke things off with him, and Marcus wasn’t pleased when I started stepping out with Will.”

“Did he threaten you?” Phryne opened her notebook in preparation.

“No, but I think he might have gotten there. I broke it off with him because he couldn’t seem to settle disagreements with anything but his fists.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “It made me worry that he would begin to do the same to me.” She closed her eyes a moment, breathing deeply. “When I started seeing Will, Marcus began… saying things. About me, about Will.” Her eyes opened and she met Phryne’s gaze again. It was clear that she didn’t want to say just what rumors the man had started, but Phryne could guess.

“And did Will confront him?” 

“Not that I know of. Will said that it was better to just ignore him.” She laughed a little brokenly. “He was so different from Marcus in every way.”

Phryne nodded, her mind racing. She’d been assuming that whoever had been embezzling from Benton Chaffey was also the person who’d murdered Will Blakehurst. But what if that wasn’t the case? Perhaps there were two people to look for. She thought about that for a moment before speaking again. 

“You said that you knew about the missing money—did you tell anyone about it?” 

Miss Frank shook her head firmly. “No, no one. Will asked me not to.” 

“All right,” Phryne said quietly. It was too unlikely that the person who’d been stealing just happened upon Will’s dead body and took the opportunity to leave that note. So a single perpetrator was more likely. Which meant that if Marcus Greenwood was the killer, he had also had to learn about the money somehow.

“Miss Frank, is there anything else you can tell me? Did Will ever mention being uncomfortable with someone, or afraid of someone?” Phryne straightened, placing her hands on her knees. 

Caroline bit her lip, thinking. “I… I can’t think of anything he said about that, Miss Fisher. I’m so sorry!”

“It’s all right.” Phryne kept her voice calm as she stood. “If you think of anything more, please call on me at the Chaffeys’ house. I promise you, I’ll do my best to find the person who did this.”

Miss Frank nodded quietly. “Will didn’t deserve this.” She met Phryne’s eyes. “No one does.”

 

* * *

 

After a light lunch back at the house, Phryne made her way to the train station. She had some time to kill before Jack’s train arrived, so she decided to spend it working on her notes. Jack would need a place to start. She hadn’t yet had a chance to track down Marcus Greenwood, for instance, and Jack would likely want to talk with Dr. Bready, and the Chaffeys themselves.

The sun beat hotly down on the train platform, but Phryne was able to find a bench under the shade of the roof. She settled her hat firmly on her head and did her best to concentrate. The anticipation made it difficult; she kept lifting her head at the smallest sounds, hoping that it was the train. By the time the engine was in sight, an odd sort of restlessness gripped her. It was a bit like the way she’d felt as she’d banked her little plane down to land on the airstrip outside Melbourne after her flight to England. Shaking off the strange feeling, she stood, tucking the notebook away in the pocket of her coat as the train chugged slowly to a halt, its pneumatic brakes blowing warm air across the platform.

Phryne scanned the cars for a familiar fedoraed silhouette; after a moment, she spotted him stepping down from a carriage a little way down the platform. Raising an arm, she waved, then started toward him.

Jack looked tired and rumpled from travel, and Phryne smiled at the mildly grumpy look on his face. The man deserved to be grumpy, having just taken an eight-hour train journey to reach her. He held a carpetbag and a small lunch basket in one hand, the other lifting to settle his hat, a motion so familiar that it tugged at Phryne. _Here’s my home_ , she thought, the words lingering in her mind as she reached him. They might have frightened her, before she’d gone to England, before she’d returned to find him solidly anchoring the family she’d built in Melbourne. Now, though, they seeped into her heart as the kind of knowledge that just _was_. 

“Hello, Jack,” she said, coming to a stop before him, just a little closer than was necessary.

“Good afternoon, Miss Fisher,” he replied, and his voice held a note of welcome that made her smile all the brighter.

“How was your journey?” Phryne pivoted beside him, wrapping her hands tightly around his bicep, and he looked down at her, his eyes crinkling in that way that said he was pleased.

“Uneventful, for the most part.” He tilted his head at her. “I’m certain that, had you been with me, some sort of mayhem would have broken out to occupy us on our journey.”

“Really, Jack, it sounds like you think I’m more trouble than I’m worth!” Phryne’s tone was flirtatious, and she knew it. She adored it when he teased her.

“Not more than you’re worth, certainly,” he responded, his own smile dawning at the edges of his lips. “Just enough, I’d say.”

“Jack, you do say the sweetest things.” Phryne leaned up on her toes to put her face close to his, breathing the scent of his skin deeply into her lungs before whispering in his ear. “Now come on, I have the Chaffeys’ car, and I’m certain that we can find an out-of-the-way spot where we can say a proper hello.” She gripped his earlobe gently with her teeth as she finished talking, relishing the small gasp he emitted. With a squeeze of his arm, she pressed a soft kiss to his cheekbone before settling back down on her heels.

“I can’t be seen—”

“Oh, Jack, I’ll be sure that no one sees us,” Phryne’s voice was a purr as she began to walk, pulling him with her. “Just a few stolen moments before I introduce you to our hosts?”

Jack’s smile was small, but indulgent, and she knew that he would follow her wherever she led. It was a good thing, that, since the reverse was also true. Who could have known that home would be the place where you felt the most freedom? What a strange thing, and yet it was perfect at the same time for the home of a woman who loved to wander to be housed in the body of a man who would join her whenever he could. She was a fortunate woman, indeed.


	5. Dorothy L. Sayers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack has finally arrived at Mildura Station, and Phryne needs to catch him up on the case. It might require a LOT of alone time. (Note: In case you're wondering when that fic rating was going to come into play, the answer is chapter 5. Just sayin'.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, this month's quote options were not quite where I was in this storyline, so please forgive me shoehorning in the prompt: “She resented the way in which he walked in and out of her mind as if it was his own flat.” Dorothy L. Sayers, _Gaudy Night_

Phryne pulled the Chaffeys’ car up to the garage and shot a smug glance at Jack. He had spent the five-minute drive attempting to tidy up his hair and redo the buttons she’d managed to unfasten during the short stop they’d made so that she could welcome him properly. Pulling a handkerchief out of her sleeve, she reached over to wipe the smudge of red lipstick from his chin, remembering the taste of his mouth under hers. The thought must have shown in her eyes, because Jack tilted his head at her, his eyes crinkling at the corners in the hidden smile that always filled her with joy.

“Shall we go in, Miss Fisher?” His voice was even, his tone caressing. Phryne shivered. She couldn’t wait to ravish him tonight. 

“Yes, let’s,” she replied, her own tone light. “I’m certain that you want to review my notes—”

“You took notes?”

“Of course I took notes. I knew you’d be coming.” She shrugged at him with a breezy smile. 

“Have my policeman’s habits rubbed off on you?” Laughter threaded his voice, and she narrowed her eyes at him.

“Definitely not, but as you were already in my thoughts, appropriating your habit seemed apropos.” 

“I hope I wasn’t an unwanted guest in that head of yours.” His eyes searched hers, suddenly uncertain. Darling man. She laid a hand on his cheek, her thumb caressing the blade of his cheekbone.

“In truth, Jack, you wander in and out of my mind as if it was your own flat.” As she spoke, she realized the truth of the words. A year ago, she might have resented his near-constant presence in her thoughts; now, it was more than welcome.

“Well, I suppose that turnabout is fair play,” he said dryly. “I find myself holding conversations with you over cases even when you’re on the other side of the world.”

“We are a sad pair, Jack Robinson,” she said through an indulgent smile. “We must endeavor not to sicken those around us with our romantic natures.”

“I’m certain that you’ll do something exasperating soon enough,” he murmured, and she laughed out loud. He wasn’t wrong.

*****

An hour later, Jack had been shown to his room by a smiling Mrs. Turner, where he had, Phryne presumed, freshened up. She met him as he descended the stairs looking just as put together as he always did in Melbourne, his hair neatly pomaded and his collar straight. She felt a warmth in her belly as she considered this Jack versus the debauched version he became in her bed. No one could tell by looking at him that his buttoned-up inspector persona hid a passionate man who enjoyed bringing her pleasure.

“All settled in, Jack?” She kept her words light, wanting the household to see him first as a policeman, and only secondarily as her lover.

“Yes, the room is lovely,” he said as he came to stand in front of her. Tilting his head, he regarded her seriously. “Where can we go for you to bring me up to speed on the investigation so far?”

“Let’s go into Blakehurst’s office,” Phryne said, and started down the hall. “I have my notes here.” She held out her small notebook, and Jack took it, his fingers brushing hers. “I’ve spoken to the household staff and both the best friend and the fiancee of the victim, and the town constable and doctor have been very forthcoming.”

“You haven’t interviewed the deceased’s employer?” Jack raised his eyes from her notes.

“Not yet, no,” she said. “I thought that might be better coming from you. Though I’ll sit in, of course.”

“Of course,” he responded wryly. They turned into the small mudroom-turned-office and Phryne shut the door behind them. Jack took a seat at Blakehurst’s desk, using both hands to hold her notebook open as he read. “What does this question mark mean, next to…” he pointed, “Mr. Mansel’s statement?”

Phryne moved closer, setting her hand on his shoulder as she leaned over to look at her notes. His scent rose around her, and she breathed it in gratefully. 

“Ah, Mr. Mansel.” She nodded. “He’s been the family butler for years, and he didn’t appreciate Mr. Blakehurst’s attempts to better himself.” Sighing, she squeezed his shoulder and moved to lean her hips against the desk, facing him. “Really, I just don’t like him very much. He doesn’t seem the type to have committed murder.”

Jack nodded. “And Rob Jeffreys?”

“I like him very much. He was Blakehurst’s best friend since childhood, and by all accounts wished him nothing but good.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time jealousy made someone commit murder.”

“True, but I don’t see it. There’s no motive, nothing for him to gain.” Phryne propped her hands on the edge of the desk, her eyes meeting his. “Besides, he was devastated.”

“And do you suspect that this murder has something to do with the embezzling?” 

“I think it must,” Phryne said. “It doesn’t make sense otherwise. The false suicide note referenced the theft; if that wasn’t the motive for murder, the placement would have to be awfully opportunistic.”

“Have you already searched Blakehurst’s home?”

Phryne looked at Jack blankly. “I… no, I haven’t.”

Jack smiled slightly at her, his eyebrows jumping in surprise. “What? Phryne Fisher letting the opportunity to break and enter pass her by? Unheard of.”

Shooting him an amused look, Phryne crossed her arms. “It’s almost time for dinner now, and our hosts will be expecting us, so we’ll have to go later, or tomorrow.” She eyed him. “And as it is your first night here…” Reaching out, she wrapped her fingers around the knot of his tie, pretending to straighten it, but really just needing to touch him. “Where is your room, Jack?”

“Mrs. Turner was very specific,” he murmured, lifting a hand to catch hers. “My room connects to yours.”

“She is a treasure,” Phryne whispered, her smile wicked. “I had planned to sneak into your room, wherever it was,” she admitted, leaning in to brush her lips across his.

“Not if I snuck into yours first.” His smile was sly, delighting her.

“I’m afraid there’s a very good chance that we’ll be too busy after dinner to go out tonight,” she said softly, turning her hand beneath his to twine their fingers together.

“I am rather tired after my travels anyway,” he admitted. “I’ll likely make an early night of it.”

“Well, you must take care of your health, inspector,” she replied, “or you’ll be no use to me at all.”

“That is my first priority, Miss Fisher,” he murmured, and his serious tone was belied by the laughter in his eyes. Phryne was glad she’d closed the door, because at that moment no one could have stopped her from kissing him.

*****

Dinner was a subdued affair. Both Chaffeys greeted Jack with respect and not a little relief. 

“No disrespect to Miss Fisher, here,” Benton said as he pulled out his wife’s chair at the dinner table, “nor to our own Constable Sawyer, but I am glad to have a senior officer here to help us out of this tangle.”

“I have every faith that Miss Fisher would have solved this without me, Mr. Chaffey,” Jack demurred, “but I’m happy to be of service.” 

Phryne smiled up at Jack as he held out her chair, settling herself in it lightly as he sat beside her.

“It will make things easier to have you here, though, inspector,” she said as she laid her napkin on her lap.

“It is always good to have one’s partner around,” Mrs. Chaffey put in, her eyes twinkling. Janice was a tiny woman with bright white hair and pale green eyes; her slight build meant that her husband dwarfed her, but Phryne could see the strength of her character, regardless of her physical size.

“It is,” Phryne agreed equably. “And Jack and I have been solving cases together since I returned to Melbourne.”

“That’s lovely,” Janice replied. “How did you meet?”

“At a crime scene,” Phryne said with a smile, exchanging a glance with Jack. “I happened to have scheduled a visit with an old school friend on what turned out to be the day her husband was murdered.” She took the dish of green beans that he passed her, placing some on her plate as she passed it to Janice. “I’m afraid I made rather a nuisance of myself.”

“Oh, but your friend’s husband—” Janice’s shock was evident, and Phryne shook her head.

“As it turned out, my friend—former friend now—was the murderer,” she said with a sigh.

“And Miss Fisher was the one to uncover her guilt,” Jack put in, even as he dug into his meal. “I wasn’t pleased when she inserted herself into my case—” he shot her a laughing look “—but I was reluctantly impressed with her detective work.”

“Not that he’d admit it,” Phryne mock-whispered to Janice.

“Understandable,” Benton put in with a grin. “No man likes to be outshone by a beautiful woman.”

“I’ve had to get used to it,” Jack responded dryly. “She’s often a step ahead of me.”

“Oh, Jack, you do say the sweetest things,” Phryne said, batting her eyes exaggeratedly. The Chaffeys laughed, and Jack’s cheeks creased in what was, for him, a broad smile.

“I’m certain that Miss Fisher already has, but I would like to speak to you both about what’s been happening,” Jack said, his voice serious. 

“Of course,” Benton said, sobering. “After dinner, perhaps? I wouldn’t want to ruin anyone’s appetite.” He shot an apologetic look at his wife, who smiled tenderly.

Jack nodded his understanding. “Tell me about the station,” he said, deftly changing the subject. “I had no idea it was so extensive.”

The four of them managed to keep the conversation going through dessert, and Mrs. Turner’s apple tarts were just as delicious as Phryne’d been certain they would be. She watched Jack devour his out of the corner of her eye, enjoying his appetite. When they’d all laid down their forks, Benton Chaffey spoke with a sigh.

“Shall we retire to the parlor, then? Perhaps a glass of sherry as we talk?” At the confirming nods from the rest, he pushed back his chair and moved to assist his wife with hers. He offered her his hand to stand, then held it as they moved through to the parlor.

When they’d settled themselves on the parlor sofa, Phryne took a seat in one of the facing armchairs and Jack moved to lean against the mantelpiece. Mr. Mansel, who had followed them unobtrusively from the dining room, handed around small glasses of amber-hued sherry before withdrawing. 

“Will you tell me about when you found that someone had been embezzling?” Jack’s question was asked gently, but without pretense.

Benton nodded. “It was about a month ago. I was reviewing the books, as I do regularly, and some of the numbers seemed off.” He went on to describe his unease and how he’d been certain that it couldn’t be Will Blakehurst’s doing, all appearances aside. “Will is… _was_ a good man, and I’ve known him since he was just a lad.” Benton smiled sadly. “He had a gift for mathematics and was a very hard worker. I trusted him implicitly.”

“As did I,” Janice put in, her own sorrow evident on her face. “Will was like another son to us—he wouldn’t have betrayed us that way.”

Jack nodded. “Miss Fisher’s findings seem to agree. So the question then is, if it wasn’t Mr. Blakehurst who was taking your money, who might it have been?” Setting his untouched sherry on the mantel, he straightened and slid his hands into his pockets, regarding the Chaffeys closely. “Who else would have had access to the missing funds and the ledger?”

“I’ve been thinking about that.” Benton downed his sherry and set the glass down, then stood to pace. “Unless someone snuck into Will’s office, only my wife and I and the household staff would have had any opportunity.”

Jack nodded. “What about your sons? I understand that they help run the station.”

“They do, yes,” Benton said, “but Davis is away at school, and Errol is in Europe buying seedlings for a new grape varietal. He’s been gone nearly three months.”

“I see,” Jack said. “The household staff—I assume you mean the cook, butler, and day girl? Or is there more than that?”

“No, that’s all of them,” Janice replied.

“Did any of them hold a grudge against Mr. Blakehurst, that you know of?” 

Benton glanced at the door and lowered his voice. “I don’t think so, but one never knows what happens belowstairs.”

“I can’t imagine Mrs. Turner having any trouble with Will,” Janice said, “nor Brenda. Will wasn’t that type.”

“But Mr. Mansel?” Jack prompted. The Chaffeys exchanged a glance.

“Mr. Mansel… disapproved of Will, inspector,” Benton said, “but he doesn’t approve of many people. I can’t imagine that he’d have been angry enough at Will to kill him.”

Jack nodded again, consideringly. Phryne watched him, admiring again the way he conducted an interview.

“And had you noticed any animosity between Will and anyone else on the station?” 

“No, none,” Benton said, at the same time that Janice shook her head. 

“Everyone liked Will,” she said. “He was easy to like. He understood how hard everyone on the station worked because he’d done many of their jobs himself, and he wasn’t the type to look down on others for doing hard physical labor.”

“What about Marcus Greenwood?” Phryne asked the question quietly, her own untouched sherry dangling from her hand as she sat forward in her chair, elbows on her knees. “I understand that he was upset when Will began seeing Miss Frank.”

“Oh, Marcus,” Janice scoffed, her eyebrows knitting in a scowl. “That young man didn’t deserve Caroline, and he knows it.”

Benton shot a fond smile at his wife, before shaking his head. “Marcus wouldn’t have had access to the house, unless he broke in.”

“I haven’t seen any evidence of that,” Phryne said, looking at Jack. “I checked all of the doors, but it wouldn’t hurt to have someone double-check, or look at the windows. Perhaps Constable Sawyer could be of assistance?”

Jack nodded at her. “I plan to meet with him in the morning; I’ll have him do that.” He leveled his serious gaze on the Chaffeys. “You realize that all this means there’s a very good chance that Mr. Blakehurst’s killer has access to this house.”

Benton Chaffey’s face was grim. “We’ll be locking our doors tonight, inspector.” He wrapped one arm around Janice, and she laid her head against his shoulder.

“Good idea,” Jack said, “it’s unlikely that you’d be targeted, but it’s best to be careful.”

*****

Later that night, Phryne stood at the door that connected her room to Jack’s, her skin afire with anticipation. They’d gone to their separate rooms after having followed the Chaffeys up the staircase; Phryne hadn’t pushed then, knowing that Jack, too, wanted their professional relationship to be at the forefront, but she knew that he didn’t expect her to sleep alone. She’d readied herself for bed in mere minutes, unwilling to be apart from him for long. Now, with her device in place and her black silk robe tied carefully—only one tug would loosen the bow—her wait was nearly over.

As she reached for the doorknob, it turned under her hand. A moment later, Jack stood in the doorway, his hand high on the edge of the door, his body clad in only a pair of soft cotton pajama bottoms. Phryne’s breath caught, leaving her unable to speak as she took him in—the strong column of his throat; his broad, tanned shoulders leading to muscular arms and long-fingered, capable hands; the planes of his chest accented with the brown discs of his nipples; his flat stomach, its expanse bisected by a line of dark hair that arrowed down to the obvious hardness of him; the diagonal lines of the muscles at his hips. He was beautiful to her in a way that sometimes frightened her—but not today. Licking her lips, she lifted her gaze to his eyes, seeing in them a reflection of her own sensual hunger.

“Why, inspector,” she said, her voice low, a smile teasing her lips, “imagine meeting you here!”

“You are in my doorway, Miss Fisher,” he replied. “Was there something you wanted?”

In response, Phryne took a step forward to press herself against his chest, her arms winding around his neck. She spoke against his lips. “There is something that I want very much, Jack.”

His free hand slid around her waist, pulling her even closer, and Phryne shivered. Would she ever get used to the fact that this man welcomed her touch?

“And what is that,” he asked, his lips catching at hers, his eyes closing in a slow blink.

“You,” she breathed, and covered his mouth with hers. Jack groaned low in his chest as he brought his hand down from the door to cup the back of her head, his large hand gentle in her hair. 

Phryne’s eyes fluttered closed as the kiss went on, his mouth avid on her own. Oh, how she’d missed this! The minutes they’d spent in the car earlier hadn’t been enough to lessen her hunger for him, and she lifted one leg to wind it around his thigh, opening herself up to nestle his hardness against the heat of her. His arm around her waist tightened as he lifted her off of the floor, his mouth never leaving hers; he stepped backward into his room—of course he’d choose the room farthest from the Chaffeys’—carrying her with him, and turned with her still in his arms.

A moment later, he’d laid her down on his bed and brought his weight down atop her; Phryne arched against him, her robe falling open, as she felt his cloth-covered cock against her sex. Slipping her hands down from his neck, she stroked his chest, her tongue sliding against his as she lightly scraped her fingernails across his nipples. He shuddered at the sensation and wrapped one hand around her thigh, which had been bared by the slide of her robe, his fingers sinking firmly into her softness; the skin of his stomach was a furnace against the flesh of her inner thighs, and she could feel his heat even through his pajamas.

“Jack,” she gasped, her hands going to the belt of her robe, needing to feel him against her, “Jack.”

He lifted his head, his eyes heavy-lidded, as though drugged by the taste of her; his hair stuck up around his face from the passage of her fingers, and her heart squeezed with love for him. When she peeled her robe open to show that she wore nothing beneath it, his head tilted and his Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed.

“You’re trying to kill me, aren’t you?” His voice was rough as gravel, and his hand slid from her nape down to cover one small breast. Phryne’s breath caught in her throat at the sensation of his fingers against her nipple, his palm pushing against the slight swell.

“Only a little death, darling,” she responded, her hands moving around to tuck under the edge of his pajama bottoms and cup the round hardness of his ass.

With a small quirk of his lips, he ducked his head to cover her other breast with his mouth, and Phryne lost track of the conversation. Jack’s concentration was absolute as he pleasured her; he suckled at her strongly, not hard enough to hurt, but she felt the sensation as if there were a cord connecting her nipple to the spot between her legs that wept with the wanting of him. Scraping her nails up his back, she gloried in the way he moved against her, so obviously enjoying the touch.

With a rough sound, he switched sides to lick his tongue over her neglected nipple, and Phryne hissed out his name again. Her hands slid around to pull at the drawstring that held his trousers in place, and when they loosened, she took advantage, slipping inside to find him, long and hard and hot and _hers_.

“ _Phryne_ …” 

Her name was a low, moaning sound against her breast, and Jack stilled, his mouth open, his muscles locked, as she wrapped her hands around him. Phryne stroked him strongly, her fingers twisting around his length, and she heard his breathing become choppy. His forehead drooped to rest against her breastbone, his fingers tightening around her breast as he panted, trying to hold himself together.

“Jack, my Jack,” she murmured against his hair, “come inside me.”

Jack’s head lifted at her words, his eyes both wild and tender, and he surged up to take her mouth again, his tongue pushing between her lips as she guided his cock to her slick entrance. He swallowed the sound Phryne made as her body stretched around him; surging in, he buried himself to the hilt, and she lifted her legs to wrap them around his waist. With barely a pause, he pulled out again, till only his head remained inside, then surged in again.

Sliding his hands under her shoulders, Jack turned his head to bury his face in her neck. Phryne’s hands opened wide against his back; she wanted to hold all of him at once, to both be joined with him and to have him move like that again. Setting one calf against the small of his back, she wrapped her other leg around his thigh, urging him close while giving him the space to move. His mouth fastened to the curve where neck met shoulder, and she felt the edge of his teeth as his hips continued to work against her, his cock within her.

Phryne turned her head to take his earlobe between her teeth and felt him shiver, his hips stuttering as he took in the new sensation. He growled, low in his throat, and smoothed out his rhythm, one hand slipping down her side to move between them, his fingers seeking out the swollen nub between her legs.

“Yes!” The word gusted out of Phryne as he touched her, and when Jack repeated the movement, she gripped the back of his shoulder and slid a hand into his hair, lifting her hips to meet his thrusts. “Jack!”

His hands on her body, the movement of his skin against hers, the mingled scents of their lovemaking, all served to ratchet the tension in Phryne’s body higher; when Jack groaned, his body shuddering against her as his orgasm overcame him, Phryne, too, broke. Her neck arched, her fingernails digging into his skin as climax splintered through her, sending spasms through her belly and breasts. She felt the heat of him redouble as he came deep within her, and she clutched him closer still, his heaving chest against her own, his lax body a welcome weight.

Before he could become too heavy for her, Jack rolled to his back, taking Phryne with him. She moaned lightly at the motion, but slid down to nestle against his chest, her knee bent over his thigh. His arms remained around her, one hand cupping the back of her head, the other sliding warmly around her bicep. Phryne pressed a kiss to his shoulder and felt him kiss her hair. 

“How is it,” he said into the comfortable silence, “that I could be that desperate for you after only a couple of days? I went months—years, really—without before you came along, and now it seems I’m insatiable.”

Phryne stroked a hand across his chest. “I’m not surprised, really.” She felt, more than heard, him take a deep breath. “You are a hidden hedonist, Jack Robinson. It’s one of my favorite discoveries about you.” Fingernails combing lightly through the hair on his chest, she pulled herself closer. “It may have been years for you between Rosie and me, but sex isn’t just sex for you. Only lovemaking will suffice.”

“Is that what we’re doing?” The subdued tone of his voice had her raising her head, her eyes seeking his.

“It is for me, Jack.” The words were a whisper, and she reached up to cup his jaw. “I know the difference, and this, between us? It’s far more than just sex.”

Jack’s hand on her arm rose to cover the hand she held against his face, and his eyes searched hers. “Phryne…” 

Her smile was tender, and she stroked the arch of his cheekbone with her fingertips. “It really was rather unsporting of you,” she complained, the tone of her voice giving her words a very different meaning, “to prove me wrong about love. It’s not nearly as terrifying as I thought it would be.”

The joy that flashed in Jack’s eyes was a sunburst on a cloudy day, and he smiled even as he lifted his head to kiss her, deep, exuberant kisses that told her in no uncertain terms just how happy he was in that moment.


	6. Becoming Jane

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phryne and Jack make a start on their first day of investigating together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Argh! I'm sorry June's entry is so late - I had a little thing I was doing called Miss Fisher Con that took up most of my free time this month. I know, it's no excuse, but I hope you can forgive me! :D
> 
> At any rate, this is for the quote "Flirting is a woman’s trade, one must keep in practice." –Becoming Jane

“Good morning, Mrs. Turner!” Phryne practically sang the words as she turned into the kitchen the next morning. Her body felt loose and energized after the previous night’s exercise in the arms of her handsome inspector, and her mind was clear and sharp.

“Hello, Miss Fisher,” the cook said, her smile sweet with just a hint of sly. “Aren’t you just a ray of sunshine this morning—and so early, too!”

Phryne laughed lightly, adjusting the scarf of her yellow blouse against her shoulder. “Must be the company,” she said with a wink. “And Jack, I thought I might find you here.”

“Miss Fisher,” he said in his grave way, his eyes twinkling over the rim of his coffee cup. “Nice of you to join me in this investigation.”

“Oh, don’t be like that, Jack,” Phryne said, pulling out a chair as Mrs. Turner set a rack of toast on the table, along with a jar of jam. “I was up late. Investigating. Ah, you are a life saver, Mrs. T!” Gratefully accepting the cup of coffee she was handed—it was barely eight o’clock in the morning—Phryne met Jack’s tiny smile with a guileless one of her own.

“So what’s on your agenda today, inspector?”

“Well, I would like to speak to the local constable and the doctor who examined the body,” Jack allowed, setting his coffee down and lifting his fork to cut into the steaming-hot omelet that Mrs. Turner set in front of him. He smiled his thanks at the older woman, who—Phryne was almost certain—blushed.

“Mmm,” Phryne said, hiding her own smile behind her coffee cup. “Constable Sawyer was very helpful, but I’m certain that he’ll appreciate your assistance. And I asked Doctor Bready to hold the body until you could come by today, so he’ll be expecting us.” She set her coffee down and reached for a piece of toast. “You have to try Mrs. Turner’s jam, Jack—it rivals Mr. Butler’s!”

Jack’s eyebrows rose and he laid down his fork, omelet already half-consumed, to take a piece of toast. “That’s high praise, Miss Fisher,” he said, aiming another smile at the cook. 

Phryne munched her own toast, enjoying the sweet tang of the jam as she watched Jack spread his toast with a thick layer. His hum of pleasure made her smile.

“Mrs. Turner, I think Miss Fisher is mistaken—this jam is better than her butler’s!”

“Oh, go on,” Mrs. Turner said, but her eyes sparkled at the compliment.

“Worth the trip, right here,” Jack averred.

Smiling, Phryne picked up her coffee again. “I think we should also speak to Marcus Greenwood today,” she said quietly. She heard Mrs. Turner’s soft snort of derision.

“Do you happen to know where we might find him, Mrs. Turner?” Jack finished his toast and dug back into the omelet, eating with a focus that Phryne found strangely compelling.

“He’ll be in the apple orchard, inspector. They’re pruning back today.” Mrs. Turner nodded, wiping her hands on a towel. 

“What does that entail?” Jack took the last bite of his omelet and laid down his fork.

“They’re trimming and culling buds so that the trees won’t fruit more than they can support.” Mrs. Turner reached for Jack’s plate and carried it to the sink. “Mr. Chaffey will likely be there as well.”

“Then that will be our third stop,” Jack said. “You ready, Miss Fisher?”

“As ever, Jack.”

 

* * *

 

When Phryne and Jack arrived at the police station, Constable Sawyer was at his desk, what looked like a case folder open in front of him. He stood quickly when they entered, swallowing hard as he came around the desk to meet them.

“Ah, sir,” Sawyer said, and Phryne blinked—she’d forgotten that his voice was as low and resonant as Jack’s.

“Senior Constable Sawyer, I presume?” Jack held out a hand. “I’m Senior Detective Inspector Jack Robinson, out of Melbourne.”

“Yes sir,” Sawyer replied, shaking Jack’s hand, his green eyes darting to Phryne. “Miss Fisher said you’d be coming.”

“Is that the case file?” Jack nodded at the folder, and at the younger man’s nod, walked around the desk to look at it. Phryne followed, reading over Jack’s shoulder. She didn’t touch him, though her hands itched with the desire to. She did, however, take the opportunity being so close provided to breathe in his scent; she had missed moments like this.

“I found out that the gun belonged to Will, sir,” the constable said, pointing to a line on the report.

“Oh, well done, constable,” Phryne said, flashing him a bright smile. He colored, and smiled shyly back. “How did you manage that?”

“Ah. Um. I found the man he bought it from, miss.” Sawyer reached for the folder. “If I may, sir?” At Jack’s nod, Sawyer turned the folder around to face him and rifled through it. “Here it is. Henry ‘Wick’ Wickham. He’s a mechanic.” Sawyer pulled out a statement and passed it to Jack. “He says that Will approached him about a week ago, and that he—Will, that is—said he needed it for protection.”

“Oh, now that’s interesting,” Phryne said, turning to set her hip on the edge of the desk. “Did he say why he needed protection?”

“No, miss. Wick said that he wouldn’t say. He was obviously nervous, though.” Sawyer swallowed hard, blinking. “Will, that is. Will was nervous.”

Phryne fought a smile. Really, this constable was very sweet, even though he couldn’t be called handsome. She hoped he had a sweetheart.

“How ever did you track down this Wick person?” 

Sawyer looked to Jack, who nodded slightly. “I— ah, I just—” the young man deflated a little. “Really, Wick found me, miss. I asked around, let people know that I’d be interested in hearing about any odd interactions folks had had recently with Will.”

“Using your connections to get information is good police work, constable,” Jack said bracingly.

“Definitely,” Phryne said, her smile bright. “And you recognized the important information when it came to you. That’s a particular skill.”

“Thank you, sir, miss,” Sawyer replied, his cheeks pinkening with pleasure. He looked down at his notes. “Wick sold him the pistol—” he glanced up at Jack “—I told him he wouldn’t get in trouble for that, sir.” His voice rose on the last words, turning the statement into a question.

Jack waved the thought away. “It’s murder we’re after, constable.”

Relieved, Sawyer continued. “The pistol was one that Wick brought back from the war. I got the impression that it wasn’t his only one.” He shrugged. 

“Exemplary work, Constable Sawyer,” Phryne said as Jack opened his mouth. She absorbed the amused sideways look he gave her, a brush along her skin. “You’ve been a great help.” Rounding the desk, she stood next to the younger man, who shifted slightly, his smile shy as she held his gaze.

Jack cleared his throat, and both Phryne and the constable looked at him. “I believe we’re expected at the doctor’s, Miss Fisher.” His voice was calm. “Unless you have more to tell us, constable?”

“Ah, no sir,” Sawyer replied. “Not at this time.”

“Well, keep up the good work.” Jack came around the desk, gesturing for Phryne to precede him through the door. “If you come across anything else, I’ll be staying at the Chaffeys’.”

With a small wave, Phryne sashayed out of the station, Jack following behind. Once they were out in the sunshine, she paused so that he could catch her up. When he came up beside her, eyebrows raised, she slid her hand around his bicep and turned them toward the doctor’s office.

“You are a menace, Miss Fisher,” Jack murmured, glancing down at her.

“Me? Whatever do you mean?” Phryne looked up at him, surprise on her face.

“That young man will be dreaming of you for a week.” Jack’s barely-there smile warmed Phryne through and through, and she squeezed his arm companionably.

“Well, he deserves it, really. That was excellent work.” She glanced up at him, her own smile brimming with cheek. “And who am I to deny him a few good nights? He’s not to blame for my already having a delicious policeman in hand, so to speak. I do love constabulary charm.”

Through her arm where it wrapped around his, Phryne could feel Jack’s chest shake with laughter, though his smile barely changed. She adored it when he laughed. Perhaps she’d flirt a little more with Dr. Bready than she might have otherwise; she’d just have to be sure that Mrs. Frobisher didn’t get the wrong idea.

 

* * *

 

The walk to Dr. Bready’s took only a few minutes. Mrs. Frobisher greeted them with a smile that seemed, to Phryne, a little happier than the one she’d had the day before. When Dr. Bready came out to meet them, his smile for his secretary was warm and somehow more intimate than it had seemed the last time she saw them. Perhaps their dinner together the night before had set them on a new path. The thought pleased her; these two had danced around each other much like she and Jack had, once upon a time. 

Phryne stood quiet while Dr. Bready ran Jack through his findings. Jack, never one to hold back, examined the body along with the doctor, lifting the dead man’s hands to examine his nails.

“What’s this here?” Jack leaned close, and Dr. Bready did the same. “Do you have a tweezer, doctor?” The doctor reached to a nearby drawer and passed the tool to Jack, who extracted a few dark threads from under the middle nail of Will’s left hand. 

“Damn, I missed those,” Dr. Bready whispered, as Jack fished an evidence envelope from the inside pocket of his jacket. Phryne stepped closer to take the envelope and hold it open.

Jack held the fibers up to the light, examining them closely. “There’s a chance those were pulled from a piece of the victim’s clothing, but given their placement, he might have attempted to pull his assailant’s arm away.” Jack mused. “Dark gray, I’d say.”

Phryne put her cheek close to Jack’s, peering at the threads. “Wool, possibly. And look there,” she pointed to one end of a dark strand, “this lighter piece might indicate a pattern of some kind. Perhaps pinstriping?” 

Jack nodded, then straightened, placing his find into the envelope Phryne held. Pulling a pen from his pocket, he took the envelope and made a note on the outside of it, recording where it was found.

“I am sorry, inspector,” Dr. Bready stood with his hands on his hips.

“It’s all right, doctor. This isn’t exactly your area of expertise.” Jack tucked the envelope into a different pocket and placed his hands on his hips. 

Phryne had to appreciate their mirrored poses—it showed off both men’s strong shoulders and narrow hips, even in the suits they both wore. Her lips twitched as she pictured both men wearing less, and judged Jack’s the better physique overall. 

“Still,” Dr. Bready said, a frown pulling down the corners of his mouth. He lifted a hand to run it over his beard. “I will be releasing the body to his fiancee in a few hours. I’ll give him one more thorough look. Just to be sure I haven’t missed anything else.”

Jack nodded. “Thank you. I’ve spoken with Senior Constable Sawyer, so you can pass anything you might find on to him, or you can reach me at the Chaffeys’.”

 

* * *

 

The sun was reaching its zenith by the time they left the doctor’s office and headed back up toward the orchard. Phryne adjusted her hat carefully before wrapping her fingers around Jack’s arm once more; she wished she’d thought to bring her parasol. 

“No flirting this time, Miss Fisher?” Jack drawled the words, a tease that spoke of his comfort in her response. She rather adored how little he was bothered by her interactions with other men, now that he was assured of his own place in her affections.

“I considered it,” she said simply, “a woman does need to keep in practice. But the good doctor is in love with Mrs. Frobisher, and she with him. I think they might just have come to some sort of understanding, and I didn’t want to make her—or him—second-guess it.”

Jack looked at her in silence for a long moment, his expression considering. Phryne fought the urge to fidget—that cop expression! No wonder he was able to use silence in his interrogations so well!—and did her best to keep her expression one of guileless nonchalance.

“I learn something new about you every day,” he murmured, and moved his hand to cover hers where it lay on his bicep.

“Well,” she said, charmed by the tender tone of his comment, “I must do my best to keep you interested.”

“A never-ending source of mystery?”

“Exactly, Jack.” She met his gaze and shifted her fingers under his to tangle them together.

“Good. I like a mystery.”

 

* * *

 

The orchard, when they reached it, was shaded and cool; Phryne was relieved to step out of the sunshine. The refreshing scents of green leaves and mulch washed over her, and she breathed deeply.

“Well, this is lovely, isn’t it?” Phryne smiled up at Jack, who met her eyes, his own mouth pulling in the almost-smile that pleased her so.

“It is,” he agreed, “now, let’s see whether we can find Marcus Greenwood.”

They made their way through the trees, enjoying the shade as they searched for the orchard workers. After a few minutes, they could hear voices and laughter; with one more shared glance, they adjusted their trajectory to approach them.

A group of seven men gathered in a rough clearing among the trees. Some sat, others leaned against tree trunks, but they each had a lunch pail open at their sides and chatted amicably as they ate. When Phryne and Jack approached, their voices fell silent, one by one. Benton Chaffey stood from where he’d been sitting with his back against a tree; he brushed off his trousers and smiled at them. 

“Inspector, Miss Fisher, can I help you?” Chaffey’s voice was cordial, but Phryne could hear the tension in it. 

Phryne let go of Jack’s arm as they came to a stop just inside the clearing, stepping slightly away from him as she scanned the faces of the men. All of the men in the clearing were young—no more than in their mid-twenties—and fit, which made sense, given the physical labor they did for a living. They all watched her or Jack with varying expressions of interest; one just beside her narrowed his eyes at them both. Phryne took him in—he was handsome, with a strong jaw and curly brown hair, but his brown eyes were cold.

“I’m Detective Inspector Jack Robinson,” Jack said to the workers, holding up his warrant card. “I need to speak to Marcus Greenwood. Is he—” 

The man beside Phryne exploded into motion. She cried out as he shoved her, hard, pushing her into Jack, who staggered as he tried to catch her. The man turned and bolted away, weaving through the trees to the surprised shouts of the other men.

“Are you all right?” Jack’s voice was too loud, and rough, but he waited for her to nod before he took off after the man. 

Chaffey hurried forward and attempted to help Phryne up, stammering apologies.

“That was Marcus Greenwood, I take it?” Her voice was dry, and she nodded at the man’s shamefaced nod. “You all stay here, in case we need to speak to you.” When Chaffey nodded again, she smiled. “Good. We’ll be right back.”

With that, she burst into motion, setting off at an angle that she thought would be likely to intersect the direction the two men were headed. Within minutes, she knew she’d been right—she could hear Jack shouting at Greenwood to stop, then cursing when the man obviously didn’t. The thunder of running feet approached from one side, and Phryne picked up her pace. When Greenwood flew out of the trees in front of her, she copied the move he’d used on her—raising both hands, she ran into him, shoving him at the shoulder.

He shouted a word that should never be said in polite company as he fell, caroming off a tree trunk and rolling back up to his feet. The delay was enough, though—Jack came through the trees in pursuit and leapt into action, tackling Greenwood to the ground again. The younger man fought, swinging a fist hard at Jack, who caught it and used it as leverage. Jack rolled Greenwood onto his stomach and pulled both hands behind him, efficiently sitting on the younger man to hold him still as he pulled out his handcuffs.

“That’s assaulting a police officer, and resisting arrest,” Jack ground out as he tugged a still-resisting Greenwood to his feet. Jack looked at Phryne, who flashed him a smile. “I don’t know how you got here, Miss Fisher, but well done.”

“Simple geometry, inspector,” she said breezily. “I asked the others to wait for us in the clearing, but we’ll need to get this young man into a cell. Shall I go get their names and meet you there?”

“Good idea,” Jack said. “That will allow me to get better acquainted with Marcus, here.”

With a nod, he headed back toward town, pushing his quarry before him. Phryne heard the younger man begin to curse and Jack telling him roughly to “shut it”—she shivered. She really loved it when Jack was commanding. And she hadn’t realized he’d brought his handcuffs with him. A small smile played at her mouth as she made her way back to the other men. That might make for an enjoyable evening.


	7. Rainer Maria Rilke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phryne and Jack meet up again at the Mildura police station, where she finds that getting their suspect there wasn't as easy as he'd thought, and Phryne will be called on to help him feel better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the July quote prompt:
>
>> And lovers,  
> are they not forever invading one another’s  
> boundaries? - although they promised space,  
> hunting and homeland.  
> \- Rainer Maria Rilke

Phryne opened the door to the police station to see Jack sitting in Constable Sawyer’s chair, his head tilted back and holding a cloth to his nose. That unruly lock of hair that was often a testament to his mood lay low over his forehead. She must have made a sound, because he rolled his eyes toward her, and she thought she saw him wince.

“Hello, Miss Fisher,” he said, his words muffled by what he held over his face.

“Jack! What happened?” Phryne knew that they were trying to keep their personal relationship out of the spotlight—Jack needed to be seen as a professional—but she couldn’t help herself. She moved around the desk to stand beside him, one hand on his shoulder, the other reaching to check the damage.

“Rotter tried to run again,” Jack said, his eyes flashing fury as he caught her hand before she could touch the cloth. “Tried to disable me, but I managed.”

“I said I’m sorry for it, mate!” The whining call came from the single small cell at the back of the office. Phryne looked up to see Marcus Greenwood grasping the bars, his dark shirt and trousers considerably dustier than they had been even after his tumble in the orchard, his handsome face showing the edges of panic.

“You’ll _be_ sorry for it,” Sawyer said from where he sat at the typewriter, his voice hard. “You’ll likely see some real time behind bars now.” The constable’s fingers flew against the keyboard and Phryne barely heard the “you bastard” that he muttered. 

“Shut it, Greenwood,” Jack said, barely raising his voice. “And I am not your _mate_.” 

He lifted the cloth from his nose, and Phryne drew in a deep breath. There was blood down his chin and onto his collar, and his nose was swollen. He’d likely end up with a black eye, or even two. She shot a disgusted glance at Greenwood, before turning her attention back to Jack.

“You are a mess,” she said tenderly, taking the cloth from him and moving to the small sink in the lavatory. Rinsing the cloth quickly, she wet it with cool water and moved back to stand next to Jack’s chair, stopping only when her hip touched his elbow. He was probing at his nose, wiggling it slightly and wincing.

“I don’t think it’s broken,” he muttered.

“Well, thank goodness for small favors. Come here.” Phryne gently wiped away the blood on his skin, then touched his nose herself. She agreed, it didn’t seem to be broken, but it was likely tender. Rising again, she rinsed out the cloth, then moved back to Jack to fold it in half and lay it over his nose. Without any ice, this was the best he’d get for now. Brushing her fingers along his jawline, she moved back to sit on the edge of Sawyer’s desk, smoothly crossing her legs.

“Do you want to question him now, or leave it for later?” Laying her hands in her lap, she clasped them tightly together. It was odd, how much she wanted to fuss. He wouldn’t appreciate it, and she’d feel foolish doing it, but the urge was there. They’d promised—with or without words—to give each other space, but it was all she could do to honor that promise at this moment.

With a small hiss of pain Jack sat up. He eyed Marcus Greenwood, who had laid his head against the cell bars and closed his eyes, the picture of misery. 

With a disgusted twist of his mouth, Jack replied, “I think Marcus here will keep. We’ll be charging him with assaulting a police officer, at a minimum.” He ignored the man’s sputtering and stood, dropping the cloth to the desk. “You all right, Sawyer?”

“Yes sir,” the constable replied. “I’ll get a boy to run down and fetch dinner from the pub for the both of us, and I’ve a cot here I can use. I’ll ring for transport, but it’ll be a day or two before someone can get here, I’m sure.”

Phryne saw that he was studiously not looking at Marcus Greenwood. Wasn’t that interesting, given what they knew of the bully’s previous victims?

“Call me if you need a break, constable,” Jack was saying. 

“I’m sure that won’t be necessary, sir.” The younger man’s set jaw and narrowed eyes told Phryne that he had something personal against Marcus Greenwood, and that he’d be only too happy to keep an eye on the man. She only hoped that Sawyer’s temper was as even as it had seemed—she’d hate for Greenwood to provoke him into unwise action.

Jack seemed to think the same thing, because he stepped closer to Sawyer and dropped his voice. “Feel free to close the outer cell door if you need to, man. I don’t know what your history is with him, but you stand your ground.”

“I will, sir.” Sawyer nodded, the words terse but clear. “The man’s a troublemaker who should have been locked up long ago. I’m looking forward to that.”

“Oi, you ugly fucker! I heard that!” Greenwood’s shout was vicious.

“You were meant to,” Sawyer said, his eyes steady on Jack and his deep voice calm. Phryne saw the tiny smile that Jack tried to suppress. She wondered whether Sawyer saw it too.

“Good man,” Jack said, and slapped the younger man on the shoulder. Turning to Phryne, Jack held out a hand to indicate the door. “Shall we, then, Miss Fisher?”

With a small smile, Phryne preceded him out of the police station. As they made their way back up to the Chaffeys’ house, she noted that he moved a little stiffly, favoring his right side. How like him not to have said anything about additional injuries. She might have to push his boundaries just a little further, though judging by the way he moved, it’d keep, at least until they were alone.

“I have the list of men from the orchard,” she said quietly, looping her hand through his left arm. This close, he smelled of dust and sweat—those suits he wore must be so hot under the sun—but underneath it all was her Jack. “Mr. Chaffey pointed out that Greenwood was the only one who’d had any interactions with our victim, but they’re all familiar with Greenwood himself.”

“I’ll ask Sawyer to bring them each in this evening to make a statement. It’s possible that they know more than they think.” He looked down at Phryne, the corners of his mouth tilting. “It’ll give Sawyer something to do to keep his mind off of how much he’d like to plant Greenwood a facer.”

“I had noticed that they didn’t seem to be friends.” Phryne agreed. “I wonder whether that has anything to do with Caroline Frank.”

“Blakehurst’s fiancee?” Jack’s brows drew together. “Why would it?”

“Well, there does seem to be a lack of young, eligible women here on the station, and she is lovely. She was also treated badly by Marcus Greenwood.” She gave a slight shrug. “It wouldn’t surprise me if Constable Sawyer has been admiring Miss Frank from afar, that’s all.”

Jack frowned slightly as he considered. “Have you seen Sawyer and Miss Frank together?”

“No. This is purely speculation on my part. It could be nothing at all.”

“Perhaps we should bring Miss Frank in for questioning tomorrow, then. See where it takes us.”

“Excellent idea, inspector.” Phryne looked up at him, noting the bruising that was beginning to show around his left eye. She wondered whether the Chaffeys’ kitchen ran to ice; he could use some. Or a steak might do, and some rest. Surely it’d be all right if she fussed just a little bit.

 

* * *

 

When they reached the Chaffeys’, Phryne took Jack in via the kitchen door, asking an aghast Mrs. Turner to prepare a tea tray and something to help with his bruising. Then she helped him up to his room.

“Really, Miss Fisher, I don’t need to rest,” Jack said strongly.

“I’m sure that you don’t,” she replied, “but if you want to appear authoritative tomorrow, we should do something about the bruising on your face.” 

“What bruising?”

Wordlessly, Phryne turned him into the bath that stood across the hall from their rooms and set him in front of the mirror. “That bruising, darling,” she said quietly.

Jack leaned forward. “Damn.” He probed gently at his swollen nose and the darkening half-circle under his eye. Glancing down, he touched the blood-stained edge of his shirt collar and swore again.

“And I want to see what other damage Greenwood did.” Phryne made the statement gently but firmly. 

“It’s nothing.” Jack straightened and turned to move past her.

“That’s as may be,” she said, following him as he crossed the hall into his bedroom. “But I still want to see it.”

Jack reached into his wardrobe and withdrew a clean shirt. “If you’ll excuse me, Miss Fisher,” he said, his tone stern.

Phryne tilted her head and raised her eyebrows, then stepped in and closed his door behind her. With a blink and a short exhalation that from anyone else she’d have called a huff, Jack turned his back to her and shrugged out of his jacket. She watched him move; his usually smooth stretches were obviously painful, though not so tight as to hamper him unduly. At least for now; there was a good chance he’d stiffen up before too long. 

Jack unbuttoned his waistcoat and gingerly pulled it from his shoulders, then loosened his tie and tossed it on the bed. The shirt came next, and she watched as he undid the buttons at his cuffs and pulled the tails out of his trousers, then applied himself to the buttons down the front. Was she imagining the slow pace he was setting?

She didn’t imagine the hiss he let out as he pulled the shirt, still partially fastened, over his head. As a concession to the day’s heat, he’d left off his undershirt, and she could see the edges of a large reddened patch of skin on his right side. With a small sound, she moved around to his front to see the extent of the damage.

“What did he do, punch you?” The damaged skin on his ribcage was about the size of her hand, fingers outstretched, and it was already purpling; it would turn even darker before it was through. She touched the spot with gentle fingers, testing to see the extent of the damage.

“He knocked me in the nose with the back of his head, then dropped and shouldered me in the side,” Jack said, his left hand coming up to lightly grip her arm. “Nothing’s broken, Phryne,” he murmured.

She looked up and searched his face for the marks that pain would leave there. He was probably right—he’d be in more pain if something was broken, and his breathing was steady. Nodding, she looked back to where her hand rested on his warm skin. Following her instinct, she leaned in and laid a gentle kiss on the bruise. His hand on her arm slid up to cup the back of her head, and she heard him breathe out her name.

Straightening, she met his eyes again, and raised up to her toes, but before she could kiss him, a knock came at the door.

“Inspector Robinson? It’s Mrs. Turner. I’ve got that steak and some paracetamol for you, along with some tea.” Mrs. Turner’s voice was worried, and Phryne dropped back down to her heels, giving Jack a sly smile.

“You’ve made a conquest there, inspector,” she whispered, then as he scoffed lightly, ducked around him to get to the door. She swung it open. “Oh, Mrs. Turner, thank you so much.” Phryne took the tray with a smile, noting the fact that there were two cups and a plate of biscuits along with a slab of steak, a bottle of medication, and a small tin of arnica. “This is just perfect.”

“Do you need any help, Miss?” Mrs. Turner’s hands hung for a moment in the air where she’d held the tray before she lowered them, twisting her fingers together at her waist.

“No thank you,” Phryne assured her. “I was an ambulance driver in the war, and did some nursing. I’m certain that I can set him right.”

“Well, if you’re sure.” Mrs. Turner tucked her hands in the pockets of her apron. “Do you think you’ll be down for supper?”

“Oh, I’d say so,” Phryne replied. “A bit of rest will do him good.” 

She winked at the older woman, who appeared to suppress a smile. With a nod, Mrs. Turner turned away and Phryne backed into the room, shutting the door softly with her foot. She laid the tray on the small table in the room’s small sitting area and turned to regard Jack closely.

“Is that tea?” Jack crossed over to stand beside her, his eyes lighting up at the sight.

“Yes, and you may have some if you lie down.”

“Really, Miss Fisher, I am quite capable of—” His affronted look made her lips twitch with humor.

“I’m certain you are, Jack,” she replied, keeping her tone brisk, “but please, indulge me, won’t you?”

He looked at her, and the serious line of his mouth seemed to soften a little. It had to be evident to a man with his powers of observation that the nurse’s tone was a facade under which the woman who was his lover hid. Phryne met his eyes, her own open in a wordless request. With a nod, he moved to the bed and sat on the edge to remove his shoes. 

Phryne moved past him to pile pillows up against the headboard, then paused to help him settle back against them. Leaving him there, she returned to the tray, pouring him a cuppa—just a splash of milk, the way he liked it—and taking it and the plate of biscuits back over to the bed. Jack meekly took the tea, and she settled the plate on the bedside table, well within reach of his good left side. 

Returning to the tray, she took a moment to sit and remove her boots as Jack crunched a biscuit, then leaned in to mix the paracetamol powder into a glass of water. Gathering the glass, along with the steak and arnica, she returned to sit on the bed at Jack’s side. 

“Drink this,” she said, handing him the glass. Wordlessly, he obeyed, pulling a face at the taste as he handed the empty glass back to her. “Good. Finish your tea, then we’ll put this steak on that eye.” She set the empty glass beside the steak plate on the bedside table, and twisted the lid off of the arnica tin. 

As he drank, she kept her eyes on the bruise on his side, gently massaging the arnica into his skin. It had to hurt, the pressure against that bruise, but she knew it was necessary for the medicine to do its work. The room was dim, the curtains drawn to keep out the heat of the day, and the quiet was broken only by the soft sound of their breathing. Phryne became mesmerized by the movement of her hand against his skin, its velvety texture and heat raising memories of other, less-innocent touches. 

Finally, Jack finished his tea and set the empty cup beside the biscuit plate, his movement catching her by surprise. Her breath coming a little quickly, Phryne capped the arnica and set it aside, but when she moved to pick up the steak, he stopped her with a hand on her arm.

“Phryne,” he said softly, “look at me.”

She did, meeting his eyes with her own, her hand resting softly on his stomach, the tang of arnica and the mellow scent of tea in the air. His hand came up to cup her face, his thumb stroking gently along her cheekbone and his long fingers sliding into her hair. Gently, he pulled her close, his mouth covering hers with a tenderness that had not been evident in their loving up till now.

Phryne kissed him back, opening her mouth to him, the taste of tea and Jack a feast for her tongue. Her hand on his stomach slid upward to his shoulder, and her eyes fluttered shut. Clearly, Jack had also been thinking of other times they’d touched; his kiss told her without words that he was all right.

“Jack,” she murmured, pulling away slightly, “your face…”

“Later,” he said, and pulled her close again with strong hands at her waist.

Phryne made a small sound as he dragged her onto him; she leaned into his kiss, sliding one knee along his thigh as she tried to keep from settling her hand on his bruised ribs. The evidence of his arousal pushed impatiently at his trousers, long and hard against the inside of her thigh, and she shuddered slightly.

He turned his head, trying to get a better angle at her mouth, and his nose bumped hers. With a groan, he pulled back, one hand jumping to cover his face. “Damn,” he muttered. 

Phryne slid her hand up to cup his jaw, and with a small pout, she leaned in to press a soft kiss to first the bridge of his nose and then the bruise under his eye. Jack hummed in pleasure, eyes closing as she continued to drop kisses along his cheekbone and jawline.

“Phryne…” he said, his voice rough. Opening his eyes, he set his fingers to the buttons of her cheerful yellow blouse, deftly flipping them open and sliding one hand inside to cup her breast through her chemise.

“Jack, you’re hurt,” she whispered, even as she rocked her hips against him, her fingers gentle on his cheekbone.

He met her eyes, holding her gaze as he pinched her nipple softly between his thumb and forefinger. “Not that hurt.”

Phryne laughed quietly. “Shall I tend to you a little more carefully, inspector?” Her hand slid down his chest to rest between them, gripping his cock gently through his trousers.

“You can be on top,” he muttered, his eyes falling to her chest as he pushed her chemise up to bare her breasts.

“I need my device,” she whimpered. He felt so good in her hand, the heat of him radiating through the wool.

“Not if I don’t come inside you,” he whispered, both hands on her breasts now. Urging her upward, he tilted his head carefully and licked her nipple into his mouth. Phryne moaned at the sensation, and her free hand slid to the fastenings of his trousers.

“You were magnificent today,” Jack said, releasing her nipple with a soft _pop_. “You came charging out of those trees like Boadicea on her chariot.” He turned his head the opposite direction to suckle her other nipple.

“Jack,” she whimpered, sliding her hand inside his trousers and undershorts. She felt him suck in a breath as her fingers slid along the hardened length of his cock, freeing it from his clothing. She adored the satin-over-steel feel of him, and the plump, soft head that fit perfectly in the hollow of her palm. Phryne let one knee slide between his, and she pressed the aching place between her legs against the hard muscles of his thigh as her hand stroked firmly along the length of his cock.

Jack pushed at her chemise, rucking it up under her armpits, but it fell each time he moved his hands away to stroke her belly or her hips. Cursing softly, he pushed the fabric of her blouse over her shoulders, where it tangled around her elbows. Phryne let go of him for just long enough to shake the blouse off of her hands; she ducked her head as he tucked the chemise over it, leaving it wrapped around her shoulders. With a soft laugh, she replaced her hand on him and pressed a kiss to his hair; he was already licking at her breasts again, his hands traveling down to slide up her thighs beneath her skirt.

A gasp fell from Phryne’s lips when his fingers slid beneath the edge of her knickers, moving into the heat and wetness between her thighs from both sides. Her hand sped up its stroking of his cock as he slid a finger inside her body, one thumb strumming gently at the point of her pleasure; helplessly, Phryne arched her back, which made her breasts move out of Jack’s reach.

“No,” he said, and he slid a hand up between her shoulder blades to tug her closer. She moaned as he suckled strongly at the skin on the side of her breast, his fingers continuing to move between her legs.

She laid her free hand on his chest, careful not to place it on his bruise, and began to work her hips against his fingers. In response, he slid a second finger inside her body and sped up the circling of his thumb around her clit.

“Jack, I want…” Dipping her head, Phryne pressed her hips down, trapping his hand between her thighs, and watched her hand on his cock. Her skin was paler than his, in general, but nowhere more than here, when the blood that made him so hard also darkened his skin. She swept her palm over his crown, feeling the liquid that wept from the tiny hole at his tip; changing her angle, she pushed down his length again, her fingers stretching out to scrape lightly against the globes of his testicles where they sat, round and snug, against his base.

“If I could reach it, I’d put my mouth here, Jack,” she said in a harsh whisper, rocking her hips against his impaling fingers, her hand continuing to work his length, sweeping up, across his head, then back down again. “I would lick you here,” she tickled the sensitive spot beneath his crown, “and suckle here,” she squeezed his head lightly, “then take as much of this as I could,” her hand pushed down toward his base, “into my mouth.” 

Jack moaned, his mouth on her breasts moving more quickly, his hips jerking against her. Leaning her cheek against his hair, she spoke into his ear.

“Can you feel it, Jack? The wet heat of my tongue, the pull as I suck you? I can taste you,” her words continued, low and filthy, “salt and sweetness against my tongue. I will swallow you down when you peak,” lowering her head further, she took the top edge of his ear between her teeth, “every… last… drop.” On the final consonant, she bit down, lightly, and squeezed his cock one last time. 

With a shout, Jack came, white ropes of release spurting onto his chest and hers. He shuddered, his mouth open wide against her breast, and his thumb pressed hard against her clit. A gasp ripped through Phryne as her climax hit and her internal muscles clamped hard on his fingers, her hips pressing tightly against his thigh. A moment later, he’d pushed her back slightly, just far enough to free his hand, and he was pumping his fingers within her.

“Again,” he growled, one hand sliding to the small of her back as his other worked within her. She felt her body stretch as he added a third finger and the scrape of his teeth against her nipple. Her head snapped backward, her mouth opening on a silent scream as her body convulsed with pleasure.

He caught her, pulling her close, the cooling stickiness of his semen smearing their skin. She drifted for long moments, feeling his mouth against her temple, unable to gather the strength to move.

“We’re going to need to clean up,” she said thickly.

“In a moment,” he responded, his hand sliding gently out from between her legs to rest at her waist, his other sweeping up her back to tuck her head into his shoulder. “Indulge me,” he murmured.

She huffed out a weak laugh, wrapping her arms around his head as she lay comfortably against him. He stroked her back in long smooth strokes, and the motion helped calm the small aftershocks of pleasure that shook her body. When they’d caught their breath, Phryne turned to lay a kiss against his throat, then pulled away, grimacing a little at the mess they’d made.

“Stay here, Jack, and put that steak on your eye. I’ll get us a cloth to clean up with.” 

Obediently, Jack reached for the steak, and Phryne shrugged her chemise back over her head, holding it away from her sticky skin. It was completely crumpled, but it’d do for the quick dash to the bathroom. She washed herself there, then darted back across the hall with a wet flannel to clean Jack up as well. They’d managed to keep both her skirt and his trousers free of mess—miraculous, really—though both would need pressing. As he lay prone, his uncovered eye watching her progress, she darted into her own room to change into something lighter to wear to dinner. 

Coming back over to him, she found him with his eyes closed, one hand still holding the steak in place. He’d flipped it to keep the cooler side against his bruise. Feeling a tenderness that tugged at her belly, she moved to the bed and laid a hand on his jaw. His uncovered eye opened partway, the blue of his iris glinting in the dim light of the room.

“I’ll take your shirt down and see whether Mrs. Turner or Brenda can get the blood out. You rest. I’ll be back up to get you before dinner.”

“Call Sawyer with the list of orchard workers, will you?” His voice was slow and deep; he seemed to be almost asleep, and yet his mind was still working.

“I will. And I’ll ask him to send a message to Miss Frank that we’d like to see her there tomorrow.” Smiling, she leaned in to lay a kiss on his uncovered cheek. “Sleep now, Jack. You’ll need your strength for tonight.”

“I look forward to it,” he mumbled without opening his eyes. 

Phryne laughed quietly and let herself out of his room, his shirt hanging over one arm. He was so self-contained, but it seemed that he hadn’t minded letting her fuss just a little. She’d keep pushing his boundaries and let him push hers. They’d figure this out together.


	8. "Bite me."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phryne and Jack take the opportunity to search the home of their victim in hopes that some new information will arise. 
> 
> For the August quote challenge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s note: The prompt I was going for here is “Bite me.”—an expression that really doesn’t fit in 1930ish Australia! I hope I’ve captured its essence, at least. See if you can spot it!

Phryne watched Jack as unobtrusively as possible as he ate dinner and chatted with the Chaffeys. He was stiff and sore, she could tell, as well he might be given the extent of his injuries. The mouse that had risen up under his eye could be worse, she supposed—the hour or two of the cold steak compress had likely helped—and the swelling on his nose had gone down. He’d be fine, she was certain, but she intended to sleep beside him just in case.

“So what are the next steps in the investigation?” 

Mrs. Chaffey’s question cut through Phryne’s ruminations on Jack’s health, and she turned to face her hostess. 

“We need to take a look at Mr. Blakehurst’s lodgings,” Phryne replied as she cut a piece of the chicken Mrs. Turner had prepared for their supper. “I don’t suppose you have a key?”

“Of course we do,” Mrs. Chaffey responded. “We have keys to all of the housing that’s owned by the station. Some of the workers have built their own, but the original buildings are all ours.”

“Well, that will make things easier.” Phryne chewed contemplatively.

“What are you looking for?” 

The older woman’s questions were interested rather than intrusive. Phryne appreciated it. Mrs. Chaffey had never expressed any discomfort or disapproval with Phryne’s work, nor had she attempted to suggest that Phryne should hand over the reins of the investigation to Jack now that he was here. It was a rare attitude for a woman of her hostess’ age and upbringing, though station life might have fostered different ideas about what a woman could do than someone who lived an easier city life might have.

“I don’t really know,” she replied, taking the question at face value. “Possibly nothing at all, but if Mr. Blakehurst was feeling threatened, it’s possible that he left a record of it. Every bit of information helps, though; sometimes we don’t know what’s important until much later, when all the pieces of the puzzle fall into place.”

“And Miss Fisher is an expert at putting seemingly unrelated bits of information together to form a coherent picture,” Jack put in. 

Phryne shot him a grin, noticing that his plate was already clean. 

“Finished already, Jack?”

“Eager to get back on the case,” he agreed, his lips twitching in the downward curve that preceded one of his smiles.

“Well, then,” she said, setting her knife and fork to one side. “Let’s get on with it, shall we?”

“I’ll get you that key,” Mrs. Chaffey rose from her chair and bustled out of the room, returning a minute later with a large brass key. “Here you are, then. Will’s place is just off the garden. Go out from his study; his cottage is the second in the row.”

“Thank you,” Jack said, taking the key. He held out a hand to Phryne, and she took it, rising smoothly. 

“Let us know if there’s anything you need,” Mr. Chaffey said, coming to stand beside his wife. 

Jack nodded, his face serious, and Phryne smiled reassuringly as she moved past them and out of the room. 

 

* * *

 

Will Blakehurst’s cottage was one of a line of six, all small and neat on the outside, their clapboard siding brightly whitewashed. They were identically square, and each had a fenced front garden; Will’s was home to a good-sized sugar gum that threw welcome shade over a small bench beneath it. Pushing through the gate, Phryne looked around. The place was close enough to the house to be immediately accessible without being so close that the occupants would need to worry about their privacy.

“I wonder who else lives here,” Phryne mused aloud as Jack stepped up to unlock the door.

“Mrs. Turner?” Jack answered, swinging the door wide.

“Hm, that’s possible,” Phryne said, taking his unspoken invitation to precede him inside. She closed her parasol and set it in the umbrella stand beside the door, moving out of the way so that Jack could join her. 

The cottage was compact; a small kitchen stood to the right side of the open door, and a tiny sitting room was on the left. A narrow hallway led off the kitchen to what looked like an outside door—likely to the shared toilet facilities that they’d glimpsed walking up; another door past the sitting area stood open to what was obviously a bedroom.

The house was tidy, if not immaculately clean, and everything appeared to be in its place. Phryne made a mental note to ask whether Brenda or Mrs. Turner included the staff cottages in their daily cleaning duties. Moving into the sitting area, she began by rifling through the books that sat on the small end table; Jack went to the kitchen, and she heard him opening and closing drawers and cupboards. When she’d checked everywhere she could think to in the sitting area, including under the cushions of the sofa, she moved to the bedroom. 

The double bed was neatly made, and a tall wardrobe stood opposite it. Phryne began there, opening the doors and examining the contents of the drawers within. She felt, rather than saw, Jack come to the door; he began rummaging through the drawers of the bedside table in his own search. Finding nothing of interest in the drawers apart from what either made Mr. Blakehurst a more interesting man or was a set of Miss Frank’s underthings, Phryne crouched, intending to look through two shoeboxes that sat beneath the man’s neatly hung spare suit.

“Hello? Is someone here?” The voice came from the front door of the cottage, and Phryne lifted her head, her eyes flying to meet Jack’s. He shrugged, and turned to leave the bedroom. Phryne rose to follow him.

“Ah, Inspector! And Miss Fisher!” Mr. Mansel stood just inside the cottage door, his hands hanging loose at his side. “I was coming home and saw the door open. I just wanted to be sure that no one was trespassing.”

“Home, Mr. Mansel?” Jack’s question was easy.

“Yes, I live in the first cottage there,” Mansel waved a hand back toward the main house. “Mr. and Mrs. Chaffey prefer to have the house to themselves at night.”

“I didn’t realize,” Phryne said. “I assumed you lived in.”

“That would ordinarily be the way of things, yes, but the Chaffeys are more… egalitarian than most.” Mansel smiled slightly. “They believe it’s important that the staff have our own private space—more than just an apartment within the big house, you understand. Not that I need it. Service is a vocation, and I’d honestly prefer to be closer in case I am needed, but one’s employers dictate much.”

Phryne made an understanding sound, and Mansel seemed to take that as license to continue.

“May I ask what you are doing here? I assume Mr. and Mrs. Chaffey know you’re in Mr. Blakehurst’s cottage?” 

“We’re investigating,” Jack said calmly. “And Mrs. Chaffey gave us the key herself.”

“Ah, of course.” Mansel nodded his understanding. “I shan’t keep you, then.” But he didn’t move; instead, he turned to look around the small cottage, his upper lip drawing back in a slight sneer. “Mr. Blakehurst was very fortunate in his employment.”

Phryne had heard this before, so she stayed quiet, letting Jack take the lead.

“How so?”

“Well, he was just a laborer, wasn’t he?” Mansel’s eyes widened. “He overreached when he persuaded Mr. Chaffey to educate him as he’d educate his own sons. No one with that kind of background could really be up to the task of managing the finances of a station of this size.” The older man shook his head as if saddened. “He was a nice lad, but over his head.”

“Over his head? In what way?” 

Phryne admired the even tone of Jack’s voice. She was certain that Mansel’s snobbery affected him, but you wouldn’t know it from his expression.

“He must have been desperate, if he was stealing from Mr. Chaffey.” Mansel said simply. “And after all the family has done for him. It’s disgraceful.” He pursed his lips, linking his hands together in front of his body and settling his shoulders. “I can’t say I’m surprised. Blood will tell, after all.”

Phryne gritted her teeth, trying to hide the anger that flashed through her body at this statement. People had said that about her when she’d first entered London society, and likely still did, if they had any inkling that she hadn’t begun life as the daughter of a baron. Within her head, she allowed herself to say _Go to hell, you pompous bastard._ It helped, at least a little.

“And what is your background, Mr. Mansel?” Jack tucked his hands into his trouser pockets, his face open and curious.

“I came up in Sydney; my father was a groundskeeper for Lady Petunia Haverford.” 

Mansel said the name as if they should know it, and Phryne blinked. How on earth would she and Jack, neither of them part of Sydney society, know that person? She was reminded of Mr. Collins in Pride and Prejudice, and his veneration of Lady Catherine de Burgh. The humor of that image helped ease her rage a little. 

“I was taken on as a stable boy at ten,” Mansel went on, oblivious, “and when I turned fifteen, was allowed to drive her ladyship.” He smiled, his thin lips stretching thinner, but the pride on his face was genuine. “At eighteen, I became a footman, and then an under-butler at twenty-one. I served in that capacity until 1914. When I went to war.” 

His expression soured, as many men’s did when they spoke of their time overseas. After a moment, when he didn’t continue, Jack spoke.

“I spent four years at the front myself,” he said, his words casual but his tone understanding in that peculiarly ungentle way that men spoke to each other. “Those are memories I’d rather let go of.”

“Indeed,” sniffed Mansel. He swallowed, blue eyes blinking as if to return him to the here and now. He cleared his throat gently. “When I returned, Lady Haverford was dead and her heirs had broken up her household. I found myself without the job that I’d been promised.”

“That’s dreadful,” Phryne murmured, though she couldn’t say that she felt at all sorry for this nasty little man.

“Yes. It took me almost a year to find a position.”

“Whatever did you do?” Phryne watched Mansel, whose nostrils flared. 

“Odd jobs, mostly. I worked for a service agency for a time, where those who did not want to employ full-time staff could fill temporary positions.” Mansel’s tone indicated his disdain of this practice. “Needless to say, when I saw the advertisement for this position in the Sydney papers, I answered it immediately.”

“Of course,” Jack said quietly. “And the Chaffeys took you on straightaway?”

“Of course,” Mansel echoed, his eyes flashing with indignation. “I am a trained butler, raised in a family of service. They were beyond pleased with my qualifications.” He sniffed. “The man they’d had before had been the winery foreman. He had no idea how to run a household such as this one.”

“What happened to him when you came on?” Phryne saw the tiny smile that tilted Mansel’s lips at the question.

“He was put out to pasture, as was proper.” The man shook his head, his pomaded hair unmoving. “The Chaffeys gave him the use of a staff cottage, and said that he could advise me on the workings of the house. As if I needed his help.” Mansel’s sneer was more pronounced this time. “Still, it was just in time. The man died in his sleep a few months after I arrived.”

“Terrible,” Phryne said quietly.

“At any rate, I won’t keep you.” Mansel said with a small smile. “If you should need anything, I’m right next door.”

“Thank you,” Jack replied. 

“No trouble at all,” the other man said. “I must say, it is a pleasure to have the right sort of people in to stay. Anything that I can do to make your stay comfortable, I’m happy to provide.” With that, he sketched a small bow and turned to leave. 

Jack moved to the doorway as he went out, closing it behind him with a soft _snick_ of the lock. 

“What an absolute wanker,” he said mildly. 

Phryne laughed her surprise and went to slip her arms around Jack’s waist. He looked down at her, his mouth curving in a smile as he wrapped his arms around her. 

“I can see why you dislike him.” He appeared to study her face, lifting a hand to place his thumb on her lower lip and roll it open. “Doesn’t look like you drew blood when you bit your tongue.” 

She laughed again, hugging him. “It was a near thing.”

Leaning down, Jack pressed a quick kiss to her mouth. “Let’s finish this up, shall we?”

“Yes, let’s. I want to get you back to bed. You’ve had a trying day.” 

His chuckle warmed her, and he kissed her again before letting her go. “Thank you for taking my feeble constitution into account.” 

“Feeble?” She replied with mock surprise, widening her eyes. “I was thinking that you might need a little… tension relief, that’s all.”

Jack smiled wider and tugged her back toward the bedroom.

“Why Jack,” she purred, “we really shouldn’t do this here…”

“Miss Fisher,” he admonished, though she could see the humor in his eyes. “Behave yourself.”

“What fun would that be?” With that, she ran a hand over his bottom and sashayed past him to resume the search, his quiet laughter echoing in her ears.

 

* * *

 

Phryne found the ledger just a few minutes later, hidden between the mattress and headboard of Will Blakehurst’s bed. 

“Jack!” Opening the book, she began to flip through it as Jack moved to stand behind her and look over her shoulder.

“A ledger?”

“A duplicate of the books I showed you from his office, it looks like.” Phryne glanced sideways at her partner and stilled, her eyes caught by the clean lines of his profile and the subtly spicy scent of his pomade and aftershave. From this angle, the bruise under his eye was obscured, and though his nose was still swollen, no one who wasn’t familiar with him would notice. His cheeks hollowed as he clenched his jaw, and the edges of his lips were sharply delineated. He really was a beautiful man.

A beautiful man who’d just said something she’d missed completely.

Blinking, she turned her attention back to the book in her hands, her mind working furiously to retrieve the question. Ah, there it was—he’d asked if there were differences.

“I can’t tell. Nothing that leaps out at me, anyway. I’ll need to compare it to the other one.” Closing it with a snap, she turned to him without stepping away. He didn’t move either, the corners of his mouth turning up and his hand landing on her waist. “I think we’ve just about exhausted this place of its secrets, don’t you?”

He nodded, looking at her through half-lidded eyes. “For now, at least.”

“Then let’s go to bed.” Phryne laid a hand on his chest, cradling the ledger between them. “You do look tense.”

“Is it odd that I find it searingly attractive to watch you work?” Jack’s voice had roughened and grown deeper than usual, and Phryne stepped slightly closer.

“Not at all,” she murmured, her eyes dropping to his lips. “But perhaps we can discuss it further in a more… intimate setting?”

Wordlessly, Jack squeezed her waist, then stepped back, sweeping out his arm to ask her to precede him out of the room. With a tiny swipe of her tongue across her lips that made his eyes flash with desire, Phryne turned and led the way back to their room.

 

* * *

 

Back in their rooms in the big house, Phryne and Jack went about their evening’s ablutions, the door between their two rooms open. Jack was ready before she was, and he climbed into his bed, leaving the covers on one side turned down in obvious invitation. An invitation that Phryne accepted, gladly sliding into his arms after turning off the lights.

Jack brought a hand up to stroke the hair away from her face, his palm cradling her jaw as he lowered his mouth to hers. With a sigh, Phryne gave herself over to his kiss, arching her body into his as her fingers worked nimbly at the buttons on his pajamas to slide inside to find warm, smooth skin. As she stroked her hand down his right side, though, he flinched, and she pulled her mouth away.

“Oh, I’m sorry!” She gentled her touch immediately, fingers light over the bruised area on his ribcage.

“It’s all right,” he said, his voice foggy with desire. 

“I don’t want to hurt you,” she murmured.

“You make me forget any pain.”

Phryne’s heart squeezed at the softly spoken words. She loved that he wanted her so much, that he refused to hide his feelings. Lips curving, she leaned in to gently kiss him again.

“Let me make you forget it more carefully, then.” The words were a breath against his lips, and she slid away to press kisses to that sharp jawline she’d admired earlier, loving the slight roughness of his evening beard. He caught his breath as she moved down his neck, her tongue coming out to taste the heat of his skin at the hollow of his throat.

Smoothing the sides of his pajama top open, she moved down his body, her lips and tongue and teeth playing along the lines of his torso. She circled his nipple with her tongue before suckling lightly—the groan she felt vibrate against her lips was inaudible, and when she cast her gaze up to his face, he was watching her, his eyes heavy-lidded. Holding his eyes, she drew back a little and moved to his other nipple, extending her tongue to lap daintily at its hardened peak, then closing her teeth gently around it. His hips jerked against her at the tiny pinch of pain, and she slid her hand down his belly to cover his hardened cock with her hand.

“Phryne…” her name was soft, prayerful, and he pressed himself into her palm, his eyes closing in a long blink. She took that as permission to keep going and pushed farther down the bed, her mouth open against his belly now, its flat expanse rising and falling as he labored to breathe. 

He had a small line of hair that trailed from his chest along the center line of his belly, growing thicker as it approached his groin, and Phryne brushed her lips across it, enjoying its wiry texture. She pressed a small, soft kiss to the bruise on his side as she passed it, then turned her attention back to his uninjured stomach, tracing small patterns with her tongue, leaning closer to bite him gently, tasting the sweat that began to rise, salty and sweet.

“Fffffff….”

She wasn’t sure whether he’d intended to say her name or something considerably bluer, but he cut himself off as her mouth reached his waistband, where the tip of his cock peeked out. In a small _hello_ , she licked its round head, his precome tangy and slick; at the same time, she untied the laces that held his pajama trousers in place. His cock, hard and long and gorgeous, pressed up immediately, and he shifted his hips as the constriction the garment had placed on him was relieved.

Lifting her head, Phryne pulled his waistband down, and Jack lifted his hips to help. It was the work of only a moment before he was fully exposed, and Phryne took him in her hand, stroking firmly from tip to base and back again.

Her hand on his flesh, Phryne pressed her mouth to his stomach, the strip of skin below his belly button smooth and hot against her lips. She moved to one side, tracing her tongue along the diagonal indentation that edged the muscle above his hip, following it down and into the nest of hair that grew up around the base of his cock. She opened her mouth there, too, breathing him in even as she slid farther down.

Because Jack was still on his side, his cock rested gently along the side of her face as she ducked underneath it to suck lightly on the skin of his scrotum. The groan he let out was louder this time, and she felt his cock jump within the loose cage of her fingers. Tightening her hand around him, she began to pump her hand firmly along his length, her strokes slow and certain. 

“Phryne, god,” she heard him mutter as she drew one of his balls into her mouth.

She loved the way this part of him felt, round and firm, his hair crinkly against her tongue. And his scent in this, the most intimate part of his body, was concentrated—she felt drugged by it, her mind floating into a zone of pure pleasure. Her sex echoed with her heartbeat, a throbbing wetness that grew with each moment she pleasured him. 

Jack’s legs shifted, and he bent the knee of his upper leg to set his foot flat on the mattress, giving her access to all of him; Phryne took it all, rolling her head to slide her mouth up the side of his cock to draw his head between her lips as her hand moved down to hold his balls and press lightly against the sensitive spot behind them. He rewarded her with a whispered litany of profanity that delighted her, and she smiled even as she licked him, the flat of her tongue sliding first left and then right, cupping the edge of his glans.

His hands moved to tangle in her hair as she took him into her mouth, pulling him to the back of her throat. She could feel the tension in his hands and his hips as he tried not to lose control and thrust; his control was one of the things she loved about him, and it was particularly pleasurable when she could make him lose it. Keeping her pace slow, she set a rhythm, sliding him out of her mouth, concentrating her lips and tongue on his tip, her fingers busy at his base, and then taking him in again. 

The sensation of his smooth skin coasting along her tongue and the tang of his precome took her back into that pleasure zone, and she lost track of how long she’d been feasting on him. It wasn’t until his fingers pulled lightly at her hair—sending a jolt of arousal down to her sex—that she realized he was trying to warn her that he was close to orgasm. Phryne blinked, turning her eyes up to look at him; he was looking back at her, his mouth working with silent words, his chest heaving with the effort of holding back, his love for her shining bright and hot in his eyes.

Holding his gaze, Phryne squeezed his balls lightly and took him all the way to the back of her mouth, letting him feel the movement of her throat muscles against his head as she swallowed. He cried out, a wordless half-shout, and stiffened; Phryne pulled partway back to make room in her mouth for his release. His hands spasmed in her hair as he lost his fight not to thrust, and Phryne swallowed quickly as he came and came and came.

When he lay panting in the aftermath, Phryne let his cock slide free, lifting a hand to wipe the corners of her mouth of any remaining fluid. Dropping a soft kiss on his cockhead, she nudged him and pulled his pajama trousers up, tying the drawstring in a neat bow. Sitting up, she looked at him, his pajama top lying open, his eyes nearly closed. She reached to draw the doona up from where they’d kicked it and pulled it over them both as she lay down beside him, her head on his shoulder.

“Give me just a minute,” Jack mumbled, his arms coming around her.

“Shhh, go to sleep,” she replied, turning to kiss the hollow of his shoulder before nestling down against him. “You need to rest.”

“But you…” His voice was indistinct, exhaustion drawing him under.

“I’m fine. Sleep now.” Smiling gently, she listened to the sigh of his breath as he succumbed to sleep. Closing her own eyes, she nestled close, the pulse between her thighs calming. There would be other times that he’d pleasure her; right now, it was enough to have given him release.

 

* * *

 

Phryne looked up from the two ledgers she had laid side by side on the bedspread in what was technically “her” room, seeing Jack leaning in the doorway.

“You’re up early,” he said, his deep voice still rough from sleep.

She let her gaze run over him, noting that the swelling of his nose had gone down, though the bruise under his eye was darker than it had been the day before. His hair was messy, and he had shed the top of his pajamas, leaving his chest bare down to the loosely tied waistband of his bottoms; the bruising on his ribcage looked nasty, purple and red, but judging by the way he was standing, it wasn’t hurting him too much. Satisfied, she allowed her eyes to slide down the trail of dark hair that, along with the diagonal muscles at his hips, seemed to point the way to the most intimate part of him, where the bow she’d tied the night before rode the curve of his groin as if offering her a gift. She licked her lips, remembering the feel of him in her mouth, against her cheek.

“Phryne?” 

The amusement in his tone had Phryne jerking her eyes back up to his. Recovering quickly, she gave him a sweet smile.

“Good morning, Jack! I woke up and couldn’t get back to sleep, and I didn’t want to wake you.” 

“What are you up to?” He moved toward the bed, settling his hip next to Phryne’s. 

“I was comparing the ledgers,” she said, leaning in to accept the light kiss he laid on her lips. “And look here.” She pointed to the book they’d found in Blakehurst’s home. “Here, the number recorded is a seven, but in this record,” she turned to the one they’d found in his study, “the same expense is recorded as a nine.” 

Lifting the book from the study, she brought it close to her face, tilting it so that the light from the room’s lamp washed strongly across it. “I think that this record originally agreed with the one Blakehurst had hidden, but someone has added an extra curve. See?” She tilted her head so that Jack could lay his cheek against hers and look over her shoulder.

“I do see,” he agreed, one of his big hands lifting to grasp the ledger’s edge. “And there—that eight looks like it was once a three.” He moved slightly away, pulling the other ledger over to see what number had been recorded there. “Yes, here!” 

Phryne leaned close again to see where he was pointing, and sure enough, the three recorded in the hidden ledger aligned to the eight in the public one. She turned her face up to Jack’s, trying not to notice just how close their lips were. 

“I think we’ve found the way that whoever was embezzling doctored the books.”

“You’ve found it,” Jack corrected her, his eyes crinkling in his nearly-there smile. “Always one step ahead,” he murmured.

Phryne smiled and lowered the public ledger to her lap, reaching to turn another page of the one that had been hidden. A piece of paper slid from between the pages; lifting it, she sucked in a breath. 

“Jack!”

He leaned in again, one arm propped behind her on the bed, her shoulder against his chest as they read the note.

> Dear Mr. Chaffey,
> 
> I have recently become aware of some discrepancies in the books for the station. A total of approximately £300 is missing, and I’ve been working to figure out where it’s gone. I’ve at least been able to figure out where the books have been doctored—rest assured, this was not my doing. I think I know who the culprit is, and I will speak to him as soon as possible; I promise you that I will get to the bottom of this and make sure that your money is

The letter was unfinished, but Phryne was certain the handwriting was Blakehurst’s, based on the hours she’d spent poring over his books. Phryne turned to Jack just as he turned to her, and their eyes met, comprehension dawning.

“If whoever was doctoring the books realized that Blakehurst was on to him…” Jack spoke slowly, but Phryne knew where his thoughts had gone.

“It would give him an excellent motive for murder.” Tearing her eyes from Jack’s, Phryne looked back down at the note. “Now we just have to find out who Blakehurst suspected.”

“But first, we have a thug to question,” Jack reminded her. “Maybe Greenwood will have some dazzling insight for us.”

“Unlikely,” Phryne said, her tone dry. “But he’s a place to start.” Placing the incomplete letter inside the undoctored version of the ledger, Phryne closed both books and slid away from Jack to stand beside the bed. 

“Where are you going?” Jack asked the question in a tone that sent a shiver of desire down her spine. “I was planning to make it up to you for last night.”

Phryne gazed at him. He’d stretched out, one hand propped on the bed as he looked up at her, the twist of his waist flexing the muscles in his chest and belly. On his face, a small smile tilted the corners of his mouth, and his eyes sparked with humor. Phryne tilted her head, considering, then set the ledgers on the bedside table and untied her robe.

“It is still early,” she said, letting the satin slide off of her shoulders.

“Very early,” he agreed.

“And I was very accommodating last night,” she murmured, lifting her arms to tug her short silk nightgown over her head. She loved the way that Jack’s eyes traced her body, touching on the obvious places—her breasts and mons—but also seeming to stroke the curve of her waist and the rise of her hip.

“You definitely deserve a reward.” His voice had dropped even lower, and she could see by the burgeoning tent in his pajama trousers that he was ready to assist her with her own tension relief.

“I do, don’t I?” With a sly smile playing on her lips, Phryne crawled back onto the bed and over Jack, her mouth covering his in a much deeper kiss than the one he’d given her earlier. Jack fell backward beneath her, his hands going to cup her hips as she straddled him, enjoying the press of his arousal against her sex.

A moment later, she was on her back, Jack having rolled them. He lifted his head to grin down at her. 

“You just lie back and take it, Miss Fisher,” he said, leaning in to press kisses to her neck, his hands stroking up to cover her breasts. “Let me help you start the day off right.”

“Well, if you insist,” Phryne replied, arching against him as he made his way down her body, leading with his mouth. Before long, all thoughts of the case had fled in favor of pleasure. Definitely the right way to start the day.


	9. Jane Austen #2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phryne and Jack head down to the police station to interview the man who attacked Jack, realizing that their suspect list is still distressingly long.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This month's quote is Jane Austen, from _Northanger Abbey_ : “Friendship is certainly the finest balm for the pangs of disappointed love.”
> 
> I love me some Austen, but this was a little tough to fit into the story this time - I think I say that every month. XD You be the judge!

“So given that note from Will Blakehurst, I think we can eliminate any women on our suspect list.” Phryne had her hand tucked through Jack’s elbow as they walked down toward the police station to question Marcus Greenwood. Their hips bumped companionably as they moved, and the easy familiarity of it warmed her.

“Because Blakehurst said he’d speak to ‘him’ in the note,” Jack agreed.

“But we should reinterview the men of the household, I think,” Phryne went on, pleased as always by the way his mind stayed in step with hers.

Jack nodded his agreement. “Blakehurst’s letter was addressed to Chaffey, but both Chaffey and Mansel had access to the books, and the cash box.” He looked down at her, head tilted. 

“He must have considered that Chaffey could have been the one stealing,” Phryne mused. “But why would he? It’s his money.”

“It’s possible that Blakehurst only _thought_ he knew who was responsible.” Jack grimaced slightly. “Our pool of suspects doesn’t seem to be getting any smaller.”

Phryne squeezed his arm gently. “It doesn’t, does it? Maybe this afternoon we should search both the big house and Mansel’s cottage for the missing money.”

Jack nodded, his mouth twisting in a “why not” kind of considering frown for just an instant. Bless the man. He really was coming along in the art of breaking and entering. Before long, she’d have him listening at doors and flirting for information. Phryne smiled to herself before changing the subject.

“So do you really think that Marcus Greenwood had anything to do with Will Blakehurst’s death?”

Jack was shaking his head even before she finished asking the question. “He’s not smart enough to have altered the books, and you’re right, the two crimes must be connected.” He paused to look at her, his mouth twitching. “What, no crowing about being right?”

Phryne smiled sunnily at him. “Of course not. I knew you’d see it someday.”

She could tell that he was suppressing a smile, but he went on. “However, I did notice that Mr. Greenwood’s shirt is dark wool, very like that fiber we found under Blakehurst’s fingernail. It’s possible that the two had a row unrelated to the money.”

“And we really should rule him out. I wonder how many dark wool suits Mr. Mansel owns,” she mused. Letting out a sigh, she admitted, “I would so much prefer him to be our killer than else in the household. I like them all very much.”

Jack nodded, his expression serious. “Then let’s hope that we can find proof that will exonerate them.” He squeezed her arm with his. “But first, let’s see what we can shake loose from our Mr. Greenwood, shall we?”

“Absolutely,” she replied.

 

* * *

 

When Jack pushed open the door to the police station, holding it wide for Phryne to walk through, Constable Sawyer was just emerging from the back door, a towel wrapped around his neck; he had a tiny bit of shaving cream on the lobe of one ear, and his homely face had been cleared of the morning’s stubble.

“Sir!” He snapped to attention when he saw Jack, his spine straightening as he strode forward to present himself. “Miss Fisher. I was just… cleaning up.”

“So we see, constable,” Phryne said, stepping up to lift the end of the towel and remove the bit of soap. Sawyer froze when she touched him, then his face flamed as he realized what she’d done.

“Thank you,” he mumbled, pulling the towel away and hanging it on a hook by the back door.

“How’s our prisoner today?” Jack’s voice was matter-of-fact, but he shot Phryne a look that said “behave.” She shrugged, lips twitching with the effort of suppressing her grin, and made her way to sit in one of the visitor chairs.

“Quiet, mostly,” Sawyer said, seeming grateful to latch on to the work topic. “Made a nuisance of himself most of the night, but finally went to sleep―or at least stopped talking―around four o’clock.” The constable’s upper lip curled in disdain as he made his way around to sit at the desk. “Still sleeping, I think.”

“Well, let’s get him up.” Jack moved toward the cell where Marcus Greenwood was indeed sleeping, flat on his back on the thin mattress, his arms and legs flung wide. “Did you manage to get any rest, constable?”

“A bit, sir.” Sawyer shrugged. “I’ve drunk a lot of tea already, though.”

Jack nodded, his expression contemplative. Then he walked over to open the cabinet by the back door and pulled out a wooden truncheon. Stepping back to the cell, he cast a warning glance over his shoulder at Phryne and the constable, then hit the metal bars hard. The resounding clang rang through the small station, and Marcus Greenwood awoke with a shout.

“What? What?” The man jumped up, fists at the ready, eyes searching for the threat. When he saw Jack, leaning against the doorframe, truncheon in hand, he relaxed his arms. “Oh, it’s you.” He turned to lie back down. “Come back later, will you? I was sleeping.”

“You had all night for that, Mr. Greenwood. Now it’s time to talk to us.” Jack’s tone was authoritative, and Phryne felt a thrill of pleasure.

“Nah, don’t think I will,” Greenwood said, settling back. 

“Ah, well, if you’re sure. We can just get started on the paperwork to transfer you to Bendigo to await trial.” Jack turned to walk away, heading toward the desk.

“What? Trial?” Greenwood sat up. “What are you on about? It weren’t more than a dust-up!”

“A ‘dust-up’, Mr. Greenwood?” Jack gestured at his face. “You attacked a police officer, causing significant bodily injury. And you might well be a murderer.”

“Murder?” Greenwood scrambled to his feet, grabbing the bars with both hands. “I didn’t murder anybody!”

“Well, I’ll admit, I have my doubts,” Jack said with a shrug, “but as you won’t talk to us, I suppose we’ll have to see if you’ll talk to someone in Bendigo.”

“Now let’s not be hasty, mate,” he said, smiling in what Phryne supposed he thought would be an ingratiating manner. “You’re right about me―I’m no murderer. Surely you can see that.”

“He’s not smart enough for this, inspector,” Sawyer said, his voice hard. “Plus he’s a coward. He only likes to pick on folks smaller than him.”

“Hey now.” Greenwood frowned. “I held my own with that copper, and handcuffed to boot!”

“So you do have it in you to hurt people, Mr. Greenwood?” Phryne spoke up, her voice soft.

“Only in self-defense, miss,” Greenwood said. He angled his head to look at her, his eyes traveling over her body in what she was certain he thought of as a caressing way. “I don’t hurt those who don’t hurt me. Come closer, and I’ll show you.” He gave her a suggestive smile. “I wouldn’t hurt you a bit.”

Phryne’s lip curled in disgust. “Thank you, no.” 

“What about Will Blakehurst, Mr. Greenwood? Did he hurt you?” Jack leaned his hips on the edge of the constable’s desk, his hands clasped in front of him. “He stole your girl, I’m told.”

“Will? Is that what this is about?” He laughed a little, a relieved sound, and sent Jack that smile again. “I didn’t like Will, but I didn’t kill him, neither. Not sorry he’s gone, though. Now Caro’ll come crawling back.”

“I think you’re wrong about that,” Sawyer said, his deep voice quiet but resolute. “She’s too good for you.”

“Wishing you had my girl, _constable_?” He said the title mockingly. “She wouldn’t look sideways at an ugly mug like yours.” His sharp smile slid off his face, and his expression turned dangerous. “Caro is mine, and I’ll have her back. Just you wait.”

“Keep dreaming, Marcus Greenwood,” came a clear voice from the door to the station. Caroline Frank stood there in a pale pink dress, pretty as a picture. She’d rolled her hair up at the back of her head and the crocheted gloves she wore were pristine white. “I’m done with you. And if you killed my Will, I’ll do everything in my power to see you hang for it.”

At her entrance, Constable Sawyer had pushed back his chair and moved past Jack to put himself between Miss Frank and their prisoner, no matter that the cell’s bars held Greenwood fast. He spoke quietly, as if to a frightened animal.

“Caroline, thank you for coming. Won’t you have a seat?” He gestured over to the seat next to Phryne.

“Thank you, Christian,” she replied softly. Placing a hand on his arm, she gave it a slight squeeze before moving to take the chair he’d indicated. “Hello, Miss Fisher.” 

“Good morning, Miss Frank,” Phryne replied with a small smile. She’d noted that the color had risen in the constable’s cheeks with that innocent touch; as he moved back to his place behind the desk, he closed a hand over the spot. “I’d like to introduce you to my partner, Senior Detective Inspector Jack Robinson. He’s come up from Melbourne to see if he can help find your fiance’s killer.”

Jack inclined his head slightly. “Miss Frank. I―”

“Now, Caro, darlin’, don’t be hard,” Greenwood interrupted, his voice taking on a coaxing note. “You know you love me. Now we can be together again, just like we were before.”

“Like before, Marcus?” Miss Frank’s voice was cold and scornful, but she didn’t look at Greenwood. “When you yelled at me and made me afraid every time you’d been drinking? Why on earth would I want to go back to that?” 

“Aw, but I never meant it, Caro!” Greenwood stretched out a hand through the bars, his face taking on that innocent cast again. “I never woulda hurt you, you know that!”

Miss Frank didn’t answer him, just staring straight ahead. Phryne followed her line of sight; she was holding Christian Sawyer’s eyes. _Interesting._ The constable’s gaze was steady, and he nodded slightly in approval, the corners of his mouth turning up in a reassuring smile. _Very interesting indeed._

“I’m afraid your romantic involvement is not what we’re here to discuss, Mr. Greenwood,” Jack said. He’d turned to face the cell again, his posture relaxed and open. 

“I already told you, I didn’t kill ‘im!” Phryne watched the change in Greenwood’s face as he gripped the bars―his eyes as he’d looked at Miss Frank had been soft and pleading, but as he switched his attention to Jack, the fury that flashed through them was shocking. “You can’t pin that on me!”

“‘I’m going to need your shirt to rule you out, Mr. Greenwood,” Jack said. 

“My what?” Greenwood’s eyes were shocked, then his face went sly, one side of his mouth kicking up in a smirk. “Is that how it is, then? You a nancy boy, inspector?”

“Thank you, no,” Jack replied, his tone even. Phryne suppressed a smile as a memory of their morning’s tryst flashed through her mind, the sight of Jack’s dark head buried between her thighs, the muscles of his naked back working as he used his mouth and fingers to bring her to orgasm. “You may keep your undershirt. I just need the outer one. Will you remove it yourself, or will the constable and I need to come in there to assist you?”

Phryne froze―she had no doubt that Jack could hold his own with Marcus Greenwood should he need to, but she didn’t want to see him get hurt again.

“What, right now? With the ladies here?”

“Yes, Mr. Greenwood.” Jack’s voice was implacable.

The man in the cell pursed his lips, his eyes narrowing. 

“Believe me, Mr. Greenwood,” Jack said softly, “I’d very much like it if you resisted. I’m too much of a gentleman to have fought you while you were handcuffed, but that’s not the case now, is it?” 

“And I’ve been wanting a crack at you for a long time, and you know it,” Sawyer put in. “Please give me a reason.”

Phryne couldn’t see Jack’s face, but she knew that he likely wore the cold expression he adopted for showing criminals who was in charge. She shivered a little, her thighs clenching; she found Jack’s control in situations like this very attractive. Before they’d been lovers, it had made her wonder what it would be like to make him lose control; now she knew, and the memories were very pleasant indeed. Schooling her face to impassivity, she sneaked a look at Constable Sawyer. The color was high in his cheeks and he had a dangerous glint in his eye as he stared Greenwood down. Glancing sideways at Miss Frank, she saw that the other woman’s face was calm, but her jaw was clenched.

Whether it was Jack’s expression, Sawyer’s, or some combination of both, Greenwood must’ve been convinced. With a sneer, the younger man let go of the bars and began unbuttoning his dark wool shirt. Yanking it off, he shoved it through the bars.

“I’ll have that back,” he said, his eyes on Sawyer, who got up to take it from him, then brought it back over to the desk.

“In due time,” Sawyer replied, his voice civil but tight with control.

Greenwood flexed, and Phryne had to admit, the man had a stellar physique that his thin white undershirt showed off to advantage―broad shoulders and tanned, muscular arms. But his personality told her that he was the kind of man who didn’t care if the woman he was with found satisfaction, and she personally wouldn’t have spared him so much as an afternoon. Miss Frank was well shot of him.

“Miss Frank,” she said quietly, dismissing the posturing fool in the cell. “We were hoping that you might be willing to speak with us again, about Mr. Greenwood and his history with your fiance.” 

Miss Frank raised her chin. “Of course. Anything I can do to help put whoever killed Will behind bars.”

“Are you all right talking here?” Phryne said, knowing how harrowing it could be to remain in the same room with an abuser. “We could go out on the porch, if you prefer, or back to your rooms.”

“I’m fine, Miss Fisher,” the younger woman replied, her voice soft. “I’m not afraid of Marcus.” She glanced at Constable Sawyer, flashing a small smile. “I have friends in this town.”

“All right then,” Jack said, sliding to sit on the corner of the desk facing Miss Frank, one foot dangling and hands clasped together on his knee. “Will you tell me about the last time you saw Mr. Blakehurst?”

“It was the night he… the night before…” She cleared her throat. “He’d come to dinner―Mrs. Brown, my landlady, allows us to bring our beaus once a week, for an extra charge―and he’d been fine. He told me that you were coming, Miss Fisher, and that he hoped you would be willing to talk with him about the―” Here, she shot a glance over at Greenwood, who was obviously listening in. “The other business.”

Phryne nodded, then glanced at Jack. He picked up the cue immediately.

“The missing money?” Jack spoke gently. Phryne kept an eye on Marcus Greenwood, whose eyebrows rose at the statement.

“Oh ho, so your Mr. Perfect was dippin’ his hand in the Chaffey’s till, eh?” He said, laughing softly. “Can’t say as I blame him. Those folks have plenty―enough to share.”

“No! He would never!” Miss Frank blurted, then repeated it, looking straight at Jack. “He would never. He was so honest, inspector.” She blinked rapidly, as if holding back tears, and her hands twisted together in her lap as she transferred her gaze to Phryne. “He was worried that you’d think he’d stolen it.”

“Mr. Chaffey hired me to prove his innocence,” Phryne said softly, reaching out to cover Miss Frank’s hands with one of her own. “He was certain that his secretary would not have been stealing from him.”

Greenwood let out a rude sound. 

“Do you have something to add, Mr. Greenwood?” Jack turned his head to look at the man in the cell, his posture relaxed.

“Will Blakehurst was an idiot, that’s all. All that money, and he didn’t take a penny of it? I don’t believe it.”

“Well, it’s fortunate that you are not investigating this case, then,” Jack replied. “Now, if you don’t mind, I am interviewing Miss Frank, here. I don’t want any more interruptions from you.”

“Oh yeah? And what’re you gonna do about it?” Greenwood’s sneer was back, and he was flexing his muscles, which made the most of his stature―he was not a small man, and Phryne could guess that he often got what he wanted by sheer intimidation.

“I will be forced to handcuff and gag you if you cannot control yourself.” The words, uttered in a perfectly pleasant tone, were deadly serious, and Jack turned back to face Miss Frank, his eyes softening. “Go on, Miss Frank.”

“He left about nine o’clock. That was the last time I saw him.”

“And did he mention planning to meet someone, or talk to someone?” Phryne kept her voice gentle. She could feel Miss Frank’s body shaking, and knew that the younger woman was reaching the end of her endurance.

“No,” the other woman said, “he said that he thought he knew who it was, and he planned to talk to you about it when you arrived, Miss Fisher.”

 

* * *

 

Phryne tucked her hand into Jack’s elbow as they walked away from Miss Frank’s lodgings. They’d escorted the young woman back to her home after the interview. The dour Mrs. Brown had not responded to Jack’s charm any more than she’d responded to Phryne’s, but she had confirmed that Blakehurst had dined at her table the night he’d died.

Phryne spoke quietly, her voice only loud enough to reach Jack’s ears. “I’m sorry to say, I’m even more convinced now that Marcus Greenwood is not our killer.” She shook her head. “This theft was well-thought-out, and Greenwood seems like the kind of man who acts rashly. Even if he had the education to alter the books, I doubt he has the ability to plan that this would have required.”

“Mmm,” Jack agreed. “Add to that, the fibers Sawyer took from his shirt don’t match the one we found under Blakehurst’s fingernail.” Jack’s words were calm, but Phryne could hear in his voice the same regret that she felt. 

“Drat,” Phryne sighed, but then a sudden thought struck her. “Will you press charges for his assault on you?”

“Oh yes,” Jack replied, still in that calm voice, though she saw his lips twitch into a smile. “He assaulted a police officer, and that cannot be allowed to stand. I wrote up a statement last night and passed it to Constable Sawyer. He’s already notified Bendigo that we’ll need them to send someone to fetch Greenwood.”

“Good.” Phryne’s own smile was sharp as a blade. “I don’t like people who refuse to take responsibility for their actions. And the way he bragged that his _girl_ ―” she put every ounce of her disdain of both the man’s proprietary attitude and the implication that Miss Frank was anything less than a woman grown into that one word “―would fall back into his arms at any moment…” She shook her head. “Well, I think that a bit of time away to think about things will do him good.”

He met Phryne’s gaze, and his slight smile gave her a jolt of pleasure. They walked in silence for a little ways, each lost in their own thoughts, and comfortable together. 

“I am sorry for Miss Frank’s loss,” Phryne finally said, “but I have to admit, I hope that she’ll lean on her friendship with Constable Sawyer. That could turn into a good partnership.”

“‘Friendship is the finest balm for the pangs of disappointed love’, Miss Fisher?” Humor laced Jack’s voice, and she glanced up at him, her expression confused; his smile creased his cheeks. “Jane Austen. _Northanger Abbey_ , I believe.”

“Austen, Jack?”

She felt his shrug against her shoulder. “Rosie had a copy of _Sense and Sensibility_ , and I read it; I took the others out from the lending library. She tells a good story.”

“A neverending source of mystery,” Phryne murmured, charmed by him. “At any rate,” she went on, louder, “friendship might have served him well enough till now, but I think there’s a strong possibility that those two will end up married, likely within the year.”

“More matchmaking?”

“Definitely not,” Phryne said on a laugh, squeezing his arm. “No matchmaking necessary―they’ll sort it out for themselves. I’d bet my hat on it.”

“Far be it from me to doubt that kind of bet,” Jack retorted. “I know how seriously you take it.”

Phryne grinned up at him, reminded of one of their first cases, and his sly comment that her hat wouldn’t suit him. Their friendship had grown so quickly―had he used it as a way to soothe his own feelings for her? He’d acknowledged that there was more than friendship between them far earlier than she had; in fact, it had been his pulling away from their friendship that had woken her to the realization that she wanted that _more_. Thank goodness they’d finally managed to find their way to the current state of their affair.

“So shall we head to the big house to search first, or Mr. Mansel’s cottage?” 

“Definitely Mansel’s” Jack replied. “I think we’re both hoping to find damning evidence there.”

“Do you think the key Mrs. Chaffey gave us will fit both doors?”

“If it doesn’t, I’m certain we’ll find some way in,” he responded evenly, sending a sideways glance her way. 

Phryne met it with a smile. It was good to be so in tune with one another.

 

* * *

 

Frederick Mansel’s house had the same layout as Will Blakehurst’s, but that was where the similarity between the two living spaces ended. Where Blakehurst’s home had been tidy but with just enough out of place to seem homey, Mansel’s house was so clean it appeared that no one actually lived there. It smelled strongly of lemon polish and soap, as if the entire place had just been scrubbed top to bottom. 

“I don’t see any books or newspapers,” Phryne murmured as they stepped inside. Her lock-picking skills had been unnecessary―the key to Will Blakehurst’s cottage also fitted the lock on Mansel’s front door. Handy, that.

“Perhaps there’s a shelf in the bedroom?”

“Or he does nothing aside from work,” Phryne agreed. “I’ll start in the parlor.”

“I’ll head to the bedroom.”

They worked quickly, knowing that Mansel could arrive at any moment. Both were careful to put anything they touched back exactly as they’d found it―it wouldn’t do to let the man know they’d been there if they could avoid it.

Phryne peered under cushions and beneath furniture, sliding drawers open and finding nothing but a small photo album in any of them. The album featured Mansel at varying ages―as a young boy standing beside a man in front of a gloriously blooming rose garden, slightly older holding the reins of a beautiful long-legged horse, as a teen at attention beside a shiny automobile, and a young man with a group of others standing in front of a grand facade. This must be the home of Lady Petunia Haverford, and a chronicle of Mansel’s time in her service. The last photo was of Mansel in his uniform, his chin proudly canted and his back straight.

Carefully returning the album to its spot in the drawer beside the sofa, Phryne lifted the stopper on the bottle of liquor that sat above it to take a sniff―whiskey, and a rather nice one at that―and moved to the kitchen.

The cupboards were meticulously organized, down to the precise placement of the tins above the stove. There was very little actual food, though―some bread and cheese, a jar of Mrs. Turner’s jam in the ice box. She supposed that stood to reason. Mansel would have most of his meals up at the big house. But if he didn’t cook… tilting her head, she lifted the tins from above the stove one by one, prying off their lids. Tea, sugar, and…

“Jack!” 

“Phryne?” Jack came around the corner from the bedroom quickly, his eyes wide. “Is everything all right?”

“Oh, I think everything is just fine,” she said, holding up the roll of cash she’d just pulled from the flour tin. “It’s very possible that I just found our stolen money.”


	10. Dr. Seuss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phryne and Jack have found what seems like damning evidence. Now they just need to put the last few pieces together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> October's prompt: “Sometimes the questions are complicated and the answers are simple.” ~ Dr Seuss

Phryne stepped out of Mansel’s cottage into the sunshine, tucking the roll of cash into her purse as Jack locked the door behind them. She loved the feeling she got when the facts of a case came together to form a whole picture. They weren’t quite there yet with this one, but she could feel the edge of it just out of reach.

“Shall we, Miss Fisher?” Jack stepped off the small porch and held out his arm, inviting her to take it. She obliged, looking up at him with a smile. “To the big house, then?”

Phryne made a small, assenting noise. “I do wish we’d found some sort of journal admitting his dastardly plan,” Phryne remarked. “It’s possible, surely, that this money has nothing to do with the embezzlement.”

“It could be his life’s savings,” Jack agreed equably. “Which he kept tucked into a tin in his kitchen. As one does.”

Phryne’s laugh rang out in the still morning air. “Well, when you put it that way,” she remarked, tucking her hand around Jack’s arm and smiling up at him. 

“You’re correct, though,” Jack went on, his lips curving in one of his almost-smiles. How she loved those smiles! “We cannot assume that this money is connected to the theft. Did you count it?”

“I did. It’s a little less than the amount that was stolen, but that could be explained away with a new suit.” Phryne shrugged. “What on earth would he have wanted that money for, Jack? Assuming it is the stolen money, of course.”

Jack’s wide mouth turned down in a quick, confused frown. “Assuming it is, he certainly didn’t seem to be living beyond his means. Maybe he was concerned that he would someday be obsolete, like the man he replaced?”

“A retirement fund?” Phryne considered that. “It’s possible, I suppose, though he did say that Mr. Chaffey had provided for his predecessor. Surely he could assume that the same would be done for him?”

Jack nodded, tilting his head.

“No, I can’t believe that. It’s been more than ten years since he would have returned from the war,” Phryne went on, “and he’s been employed here for the last three. If he was truly concerned with retirement, he would have begun stealing from the outset.”

“Unless he only recently caught the trick of it.”

“Hm, possible, I suppose.” Phryne frowned a little. “What if he was being blackmailed?”

“By?” Jack looked down at her, his expression considering.

“No idea,” Phryne admitted. She walked quietly for a little bit. “Maybe it was less about Mansel and more about someone else.” 

Jack invited her to say more with an interested look and an upward twist of his eyebrows. 

“Mansel didn’t like Blakehurst. Perhaps he was trying to get the man fired?” Phryne looked up at him, momentarily distracted by the line of his profile. She firmly squelched the urge to slide her fingers into his hair and kiss him senseless. Now was not the time.

“Why, though?” Jack shook his head, and Phryne blinked, remembering that they’d been discussing Mr. Mansel. “He already said he didn’t want Blakehurst’s position.”

With a small frown, she thought about that. “Didn’t Mr. Blakehurst recently get engaged? Maybe Mansel’s motive was that of a spurned suitor?”

“Do you think Mr. Mansel is a homosexual?” Jack’s surprise was clear. 

“It’s certainly possible,” Phryne allowed. “Either that, or he was just immune to my charms.”

“It would take a particularly strong man to resist you, Miss Fisher,” Jack replied, his voice dry.

“I know,” she agreed, knowing that her pretend vanity would amuse him. He pleased her by laughing. “Really, though, Mansel sees me as upper class, which might mean that he isn’t _allowed_ to find me attractive.”

Jack made a wordless noise of amused agreement, then seemed to pause, though his steps never faltered. When he spoke, it was slowly. “Mansel has been very careful to tell us that Blakehurst was in over his head in this job.”

Catching his meaning, Phryne glanced quickly up at him. “You think he was trying to prove his point?”

“It’s possible.” Jack narrowed his eyes; she could tell he was thinking through his hypothesis. “But to what end?”

Thoughts whirled through Phryne’s head. Mansel’s assertion that Blakehurst had “overreached” himself, his own story of working his way up and then being displaced by the war, his distaste each time she’d stepped outside what he considered her station. 

“It might just be that his sense of order was offended,” she mused. “The world has rules, and those rules must be followed.” Sighing, she looked up at him. “That hardly seems a motive for murder.”

“I’ve seen worse,” Jack shrugged, “but the murder might not have been premeditated. If Blakehurst was going to expose Mansel’s theft…”

“Mansel might have reacted from adrenaline.” Phryne nodded. “And if Blakehurst threatened Mansel with the gun…”

“Mansel might have reacted as he’d been trained to do on the battlefield.” Jack’s tone was grim. “It could even have been unintentional. He wouldn’t be the first man to be unable to leave the war behind him.”

Phryne squeezed Jack’s arm, understanding. He’d been one of those men, though his memories mostly drove him to brooding silence and alcohol. She was glad that she’d been able to help him alleviate the former, since she’d shared those experiences.

“Shall we see if the front parlor is available for our interview with Mr. Mansel?”

“That sounds perfect, Miss Fisher,” Jack replied, the smile he turned on her small and tender. “And I think we should invite our host and hostess to join us, don’t you?”

“Of course, Jack,” she said, her tone light. “How else will they understand just what brilliant investigators they’ve managed to employ?”

 

* * *

 

It took a little time to assemble the household—Phryne thought, in the end, that not including Mrs. Turner and her helper Brenda would be tantamount to accusing Mansel from the outset—because Mr. Chaffey was out in the orchard. Mrs. Chaffey sent Brenda to fetch her brother Mikey and send him off to get the man; in the meantime, Mrs. Turner brought in a tea tray laden with cucumber sandwich triangles and raspberry thumbprint shortbread biscuits. Jack’s enthusiastic welcome for the older woman made her blush, and she smiled as she doctored his tea and loaded up a plate for him.

“Have you ever considered a move to Melbourne, Mrs. Turner?” Jack said after sampling both treats. “You could marry me. I wouldn’t be much trouble, I promise.” The twinkle in his eyes was sincere, though the offer—and the idea of how little work he’d be—was not.

Phryne laughed up at Mrs. Turner as the older woman served her a plate and cup as well. 

“I’m not sure you could keep up with me, Inspector Robinson,” Mrs. Turner said, with a wink at Phryne. 

“You’re probably right,” Jack sighed theatrically and popped another biscuit into his mouth.

“Don’t worry, Jack,” Phryne said, her tone solicitous, “I’m certain you can find someone to console you.”

“I suppose you’re right, Miss Fisher. I’ll recover someday.” He sent a smile over to Mrs. Chaffey, whose silent laughter shook her whole body.

“Oh, go on with you,” Mrs. Turner said, passing her mistress a plate and cup. “I’ll just be sure to send some jam home with you and you’ll be right as rain.”

“What on earth is going on here?” Mr. Chaffey entered the room on long strides, bringing with him the scent of heat and dust and oranges. Mr. Mansel trailed him one step behind, dark pinstripe suit pristine despite the dust on his employer’s coat, which he’d hung in the entryway. “Sounds like we’re having a jolly time—oh, thank you, Mrs. Turner.” 

The housekeeper nodded as she turned to hand him a plate and cup. Spotting Brenda hesitating in the doorway, Mrs. Turner beckoned her to stand at her side behind the sofa.

“Ah, thank you for joining us, Mr. Chaffey, Mr. Mansel, Miss Brenda.” Jack sobered, setting his empty plate on the tray and standing. Phryne followed suit, moving to stand by the doorway behind Mr. Mansel. “We have some information about Mr. Blakehurst’s death that we wanted to bring to your attention.”

Jack moved to stand in front of the fireplace, his hands in his pockets. “We considered the possibility that Mr. Blakehurst’s murder was not connected to the missing funds,” he began.

Phryne saw Mansel start. He’d been standing with his hands at his sides, and when Jack said the word “murder,” he lifted one to cover his mouth. “Murder? But… there was a note. You don’t think Mr. Blakehurst killed himself?” His words were muffled, but clear, and Jack met his gaze without flinching.

“No, we’re certain that he didn’t, Mr. Mansel. The evidence says that William Blakehurst was murdered, though whoever killed him wanted to make it look like a self-inflicted wound.” Phryne shivered at the look on Jack’s face. His expression was impassive, but he watched the man with cop’s eyes, missing nothing. 

When Mansel didn’t say anything else, Jack went on. “We discarded that thought as unlikely, given the specificity of the note that was found on the body, and so we examined Mr. Blakehurst’s bookkeeping.”

Phryne took up the tale, and the heads of everyone in the room, including Mansel, swiveled toward her. “We were fortunate to find a duplicate set of books in the man’s cottage that showed a clear record of the changes to the books we’d originally reviewed. It was clear that whoever altered the books had access to the ones in Mr. Blakehurst’s study, but not those in his cottage.”

Now Jack again—Phryne loved this back-and-forth with him, and she let him see that in her eyes. “That narrowed our pool of suspects to the people in this room.” 

Benton Chaffey grunted, the two older women gasped, and Brenda let out a small sob.

“How _dare_ you,” Mansel cried, his hands dropping to his side again and closing into fists.

“It’s all right, Mr. Mansel,” Mr. Chaffey said, raising a hand to stay his butler’s forward motion, and leaning forward to set his plate on the tray. “It makes sense that they would be suspicious, if only for long enough to clear us.”

Phryne scanned the room’s occupants. Mrs. Chaffey had raised a hand to her throat, and her eyes were wide. Mrs. Turner’s mouth was tight; she’d wrapped her arms around Brenda, who was shaking all over. Phryne’s heart twisted for the girl—she wished she could send her out of the room, but they’d set their course. It wouldn’t be long now. Turning her eyes back to Mansel, she saw that he had flushed red; he’d tucked his hands behind him, but Phryne could see how he gripped his wrist tightly while his free hand clenched and released, clenched and released.

“Exactly right,” Phryne said, stepping up to stand beside the man, one hand resting on the back of the sofa on which her hostess sat. “We also found an incomplete letter that Mr. Blakehurst had written. It was addressed to you, Mr. Chaffey.” She turned to her host, watching Mansel from the corner of her eye. “It said that Mr. Blakehurst knew who’d been embezzling from you, and that he planned to take action.”

“Considering that the gun that killed him is one that Mr. Blakehurst purchased just a few days before he died, it seems logical that his solution was to attempt to force the thief to return the money.” Jack went on. “Our supposition is that he asked the person to meet him, and there was a struggle over the weapon.”

“It could even have been accidental, if not for that note,” Phryne said. “Whoever wrote that note was covering his tracks—and if the note was written before Mr. Blakehurst’s death, that would indicate a level of premeditation that could lead to a murder charge.”

“All of that led us to searching another of the staff cabins,” Jack said with a small smile at Mrs. Chaffey. “I’m afraid we took a bit of liberty with the access key you gave us—if it hadn’t fit the door, we would have come to you to ask for another.”

“Of course you should have used it,” Mrs. Chaffey waved this away. “But what did you find?”

“We found,” Phryne said, reaching into her handbag to pull out the neat roll of bills she’d found, “cash in very nearly the amount that’s missing, hidden away in a flour tin.”

Their audience gasped again, but this time, Jack spoke over them. “I don’t suppose you’d like to tell us, Mr. Mansel, where that money came from?”

“It’s my savings,” The man said, his voice tight. “Are you suggesting that I doctored those books, inspector? I’m no accountant!”

“Well, you wouldn’t have to be,” Phryne replied, her voice cool as she watched a flush rise in his cheeks. “It was only a few numbers here and there, altered to account for a small amount each time. A three becomes an eight, and you pocket a fiver. Did Mr. Blakehurst teach you how to read the books and where the cash was kept?”

Mansel’s jaw worked, clenching and unclenching in much the same rhythm as his hands. His eyes were hot coals, glaring at her from beneath his pale brows.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, the words squeezed between gritted teeth. 

“Did he tell you he knew you’d been stealing?” Jack pulled his hands from his pocket. “Ask you to meet him in the vineyard?” 

“I bet he threatened you, didn’t he, Mr. Mansel?” Phryne’s turn now. She folded her arms, tapping the roll of cash against her opposite bicep, her hip resting against the sofa. “Told you he was going to turn you in, that you’d lose your job. And him just a laborer’s son.” She filled the last few words with the scorn he’d indicated when speaking of Will Blakehurst.

“ _He had no right!_ ” Mansel erupted, his shout making all three women—aside from Phryne, of course, though she’d never admit it was a near thing—jump. “That… that… figjam thought he was so smart, with his education and his jumped-up ideas of himself.” The man’s words were acid, his face red. “I served my country, spent four years in _hell_ , and nothing to show for it. That tosser didn’t even know how to hold that gun—he’d have shot himself before he ever hit me.”

His eyes wild, Mansel looked around the room, trying to find an ally. “He didn’t _deserve_ that job. He’d done nothing for it. Just had it _handed_ to him!” Focusing on Mr. Chaffey, who’d stood up from his chair, his face angry, Mansel held out a beseeching hand. “I would have helped him find a place that suited him after you’d dismissed him,” he said, his voice earnest. “An underbutler or perhaps a driver. He could have been trusted with that. But your _secretary_? What were you thinking, sir?”

“I was thinking that I’d employed a young man with plenty of promise and an admirable integrity.” Chaffey’s voice was low and furious, the betrayal he felt clear in his tone. 

“No,” Mansel shook his head. “He was a _pretender_. He had no right to aspire above his station, and he had you all fooled. He would have ruined this place. I was doing you a _favor_.”

“And what happened that night, Mr. Mansel?” Jack spoke quietly, his voice calm and authoritative. He stepped up to lay a hand on Mr. Chaffey’s shoulder. “Did he accuse you of theft?”

“It wasn’t _theft_ ,” Mansel practically spat the word. “I wasn’t going to keep the money! It would have been found in William’s cottage when Mr. Chaffey finally saw sense.”

“But Will figured it out, didn’t he?” Phryne’s words made Mansel flinch.

“Yes. He said he’d tell Mr. Chaffey, said he was disgusted by me, wouldn’t listen when I told him my reasons.” Mansel drew himself up. “Imagine that. That upstart wouldn’t listen to _me_!” His tone indicated that he considered himself so far above Will Blakehurst that the idea the younger man wouldn’t take his reasoning as gospel was unimaginable.

“So you showed him what you were made of,” Phryne murmured.

Mansel’s expression changed, becoming sly, his satisfaction with his own actions radiating from him. “He deserved what he got.”

The room was quiet, and Mansel’s words seemed to echo around it. Brenda was weeping into Mrs. Turner’s shoulder, and the older woman’s face was stark, silent tears falling in rivulets down her cheeks as she stared at Mansel.

“Poor Will,” Mrs. Chaffey whispered, and Mansel sent her a glance that telegraphed his opinion that she was sadly deluded. When her husband crossed to stand beside her and lay a hand on her shoulder, her back straightened and she laid her hand atop his. “Poor Will,” she said again, defiantly, and Mansel looked away, his lip curling.

Jack stepped forward, his hand held out to usher Mansel out the door. “Come then, Mr. Mansel. We’ll need to take you down to the police station so that we can get all of this on paper.”

“Police station?” Mansel’s head whipped around, his expression incredulous. He took a step away from Jack. “You can’t arrest me! I didn’t steal anything,” He shot a look at Mr. Chaffey. “I fully intended that the Chaffeys would get that money back. And Will—he brought that on himself! You can’t really mean to—”

“A man is dead, Mr. Mansel,” Jack said, his voice hard.

“A good man,” Chaffey said coldly, his fingers now entwined with his wife’s. “A man with his whole life ahead of him. You stole that, for damn sure.”

“I won’t!” Mansel said, and now his tone was angry. Before Phryne knew it, he’d reached out to grab the hand in which she held the roll of money. Yanking her toward him, he wrapped an arm around her neck, tight enough to choke. “I’ll be going now, inspector. Don’t follow, or I’ll snap her neck.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s end note: **figjam** – a person with a high opinion of themselves, an abbreviation of " **f** uck, **I'** m **g** ood, **j** ust **a** sk **m** e". According to the interwebs, this is an Australian term, though very possibly anachronistic. I just liked it.
> 
> Also, an alternative use of that quote is cracking me up, because the bottom line here is “the butler did it” (yep, I’m easily amused). :D


	11. Ernest Hemingway

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When last we left our intrepid detectives, Phryne was in a perilous spot. Will she survive? Will she and Jack catch the murderer? Will they get a chance to shag again?? Tune in to this month's chapter for these answers and more!
> 
> I might be a little bit punchy. I blame the overload of turkey and trimmings. I hope those of you who celebrate Thanksgiving had a wonderful one - I'm thankful for all of you! ♥

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the quote "The world was not wheeling anymore. It was just very clear and bright and inclined to blur at the edges."― Ernest Hemingway, The Sun Also Rises

Phryne clutched at the arm Mansel had around her neck, her heart racing. She did not cry out—it wasn’t her style—but she locked eyes with Jack and saw his fear for her in the clench of his jaw and the slight widening of his eyes. She took a deep breath, taking in Mansel’s silver-polish-and-wool scent as the man dragged her out of the parlor and back toward the kitchen. Her focus narrowed to Jack’s bruised face, with its tightly twisted mouth and its intensely focused eyes—she knew that he trusted her to help him save her, but that he hated every moment she was in danger.

Despite Mansel’s demand, Jack and Mr. Chaffey followed them at a distance—they did not want to provoke Mansel into hurting her, she was sure, but they also didn’t want to let them out of their sight—and Mansel didn’t object. Skirting carefully around the table in the kitchen, Mansel paused in front of the back door.

“I didn’t intend to kill him,” Mansel said, and Phryne realized that he was talking to Mr. Chaffey. “He forced me to.”

“You are a murderer and a thief,” Mr. Chaffey said, the disgust plain in his voice. “Even if you don’t hang, I had better never see you on Mildura Station again.”

Mansel’s arm tightened slightly around Phryne’s throat, and he twisted to open the key box that hung beside the door, plucking the car key from its hook. In that moment of inattention, Phryne met Jack’s eyes and moved, driving her elbow into Mansel’s middle while she stomped hard on his instep. With a shout of pain, Mansel loosened his hold and she ducked out of it, whirling to face him, fists at the ready.

The look on his face was deadly, as if he’d kill her where she stood, and Phryne was abruptly glad that he didn’t have a weapon. She felt Jack’s approach; he stepped up beside her, shoulder to shoulder—and she felt a rush of love for this man who valued her enough to let her fight her own battles.

“There’s nowhere to go, Mansel,” Jack said, and Phryne could hear the tension in his voice.

“There’s away from here,” Mansel rasped, his voice sounding like broken glass. 

Phryne could see the anguish in Mansel’s eyes. The man truly loved being in service, and leaving here was obviously affecting him more than the way he’d murdered an innocent man. In the back of her mind, she heard an echo of her Aunt Prudence: _“Service isn’t a profession, it’s a vocation.”_ For Mansel, that appeared to be true. At least in intention, everything he’d done had been in service to the Chaffeys. 

“You’re finished, man,” Mr. Chaffey said. “Give up and take your punishment.”

“You may consider this my notice, sir,” Mansel replied, his grief at the words evident in his tone. 

With that statement, Mansel turned and ran out the back door of the house. He was surprisingly fast, and both Phryne and Jack took a beat to realize that he was doing a runner. Within a moment, though, the two detectives were after him, and they watched as he darted across the lawn to the garage where the Chaffeys’ car was stored. He ducked inside the building and Phryne heard the dull thud of the bar across the door being dropped as she halted, her palm touching the side of the building. Jack pulled up beside her and their eyes met.

“He’s barred it,” she said, keeping her voice soft. There was no way to tell if Mansel would be able to hear them from inside.

Jack glanced up, then back at her. “Another entrance?”

“Only the windows and the main door.” Mr. Chaffey had arrived to stand behind them, his hands on his hips. “And be watchful—I keep my hunting rifles in there.”

Phryne glanced back at Jack, who met her eyes, his expression serious.

“No time to lose. I can go through that window there,” Phryne pointed—a pair of windows were set in the wall above them. One of them was close to a drain pipe that had been attached to the wall with narrow brackets.

“Absolutely not.” Jack craned his neck. “I’ll go through the window.”

“That pipe won’t hold you, inspector.” Chaffey’s tone was regretful, and he met Jack’s furious glance with a small shrug.

“That’s settled, then.” Phryne looked to Jack. “Where will you be?”

“I’ll move around front,” Jack said, and she watched his jaw clench between words. He hated it, she knew, when she put herself in danger.

Phryne nodded and ran her hand down his lapel, hoping to soothe him. “Stay clear of the main doors in case he comes roaring through them.”

Jack acknowledged this with a nod, and Phryne could see the muscles of his jaw working. She should not find that as attractive as she did. 

“Janice is calling the constable,” Mr. Chaffey put in. “I’m sure he’s on his way. I’ll go to the front of the house and flag him down.”

“Good. Thank you,” Jack said, then turned to Phryne as the older man moved back toward the house.

“Give us a boost, then.” She met his eyes, keeping her expression serious. He must know that she understood the danger she’d be in once she got inside. But if she could get the best of Mansel, if she could keep him from getting away, so much the better for all involved.

Jack took a deep breath and stepped over to the pipe to cup his hands. She set her foot in them and placed her hands on his shoulders.

“I’ll be all right,” she whispered, brushing her cheek against his.

“Be careful,” he replied. “Please.”

“You be careful too,” she said. “I’ve already patched you up once this trip.” His slight smile at her salvo was a reward, and she dropped a quick kiss on his lips.

“Up you get,” he said, his low voice taut with concern. 

With a heave, he boosted her several feet closer to the window above, and she carefully dug her toes into the crevice made by the drain pipe’s support brackets. Phryne did her best to climb quietly, wishing that her boots were better suited for the task, and that she’d worn trousers today. Still, it was only Jack below her to see her flash her knickers, and he’d seen her in less. Her mouth curved in a smile as she considered just how much less. 

Before long, she’d reached the bottom of the window; peeking carefully around the frame, she peered down into the dim interior of the garage. A small walkway ran along the wall beneath the windows, its users protected by a half-height solid wall. That was bad—she couldn’t see Mansel—but also good, as he wouldn’t be able to see her.

Wrapping one arm around the drain pipe, she reached carefully to slide the window slowly open, hoping that Mansel was distracted by something—anything—that would keep him from hearing it in the stillness of the afternoon. When the car’s engine roared to life, she startled, and then took the opportunity she’d been given to push hard at the window. It slid open smoothly with only a quiet screech of wood on wood that was easily covered by the sound of the motor. 

With the window open, she glanced back down at Jack, who had remained below her in case she fell. He nodded, the proud tilt to his mouth something likely only someone familiar with the increments of his smiles would see; she blew him a kiss before pulling herself carefully through the window to crouch on the walkway.

Now that she was inside, she could hear Mansel muttering; he had obviously left the car—he was banging around below her. Looking for something, perhaps? Glancing left and right, she saw that there were boxes stacked at one end of the walkway; at the other end, the short barrier ended before the far wall at what was likely a way down to the lower level. If she was lucky, it’d be a staircase rather than a ladder, and the safety wall would continue all the way to the bottom to hide her from Mansel’s view.

Carefully, she moved that way, lifting herself up to peek over the edge of the walkway, ready to duck back down at any moment. Across the garage, the large doors were closed, the rear end of the Chaffeys’ car a few feet away, the purr of its engine vibrating under her feet. Mansel was nowhere in sight, but she could still hear him him moving around below. 

Phryne straightened her legs but stayed bent over, taking advantage of the wall to block her from Mansel’s view. Moving quickly and as quietly as she could—mindful that Mansel had to be directly beneath her—she made her way to the staircase. Peeking through the gap, she gave a triumphant nod—a staircase edged by the half-wall continued all the way to the lower floor. Slowly and carefully, she set her foot on the first step, being careful to stay hidden behind the barrier. 

She was halfway down when she heard a great _bang_ ; freezing in place, she waited. After a moment, she heard a clatter and then the squeak of a hinge. Doing her best to keep her breathing even, she continued to creep forward, her ears straining to track Mansel’s motions as best she could.

What felt like hours later but was probably less than a full minute, Phryne crouched at the bottom of the staircase and peered around the end of the wall. She spotted Mansel at once; he stood in front of a tall gun cabinet with his back to her. The solid wooden doors to the cabinet stood wide open; at his feet lay a padlock and a prybar that he’d likely used to break it. He held a rifle under one arm—she shuddered a little to see that it was a Lee-Enfield rifle of the sort that all Australian troops had been issued during the war—and with his other hand he was loading the familiar long bullets into its magazine. 

Phryne ducked back behind the wall and closed her eyes for a moment to take a deep breath. That rifle and those bullets were far too recognizable to anyone who’d been at the front. For someone like her, the memory of them was closely linked to that of men wounded and dying, men being loaded into her ambulance but unwilling to release their grip on their guns. The remembered scent of gunpowder and blood rose around her and she fought it back. This was not the war, she was not helpless to stop the killing, and she and Jack would put this man behind bars.

Phryne blew out the breath she’d been holding, then peered around the end of the staircase. Mansel had left the driver’s door of the car open, and he was opening other cabinets, the rifle under his arm. His coat pockets bulged with whatever he’d managed to find so far—more bullets and his roll of cash, definitely, and who knew what else he’d found in here.

Taking a deep breath, Phryne rose up on the balls of her feet, ready to run. She could not let him get in that car.

When she judged that Mansel was least likely to see her—he had his head deep in a cabinet that contained several pairs of clean coveralls—she dashed over to the car and slid into the driver’s seat, ducking down low. She was pleased to note that her hands didn’t shake as she stopped its engine.

In the sudden silence, Mansel roared, “No!” and she heard him knocking things over as he came toward the car.

Phryne quickly tugged up her skirt to palm her dagger. It wouldn’t do too much good against a gun, but every little bit helped. She inched backward along the seat, keeping the knife hidden behind her hip.

The former butler appeared abruptly in the open car door, his face twisted in anger and his teeth bared. His eyes were wild, the color high in his cheeks, but his hair was still perfectly neat, and although the line of his coat was ruined by whatever he’d shoved in its pockets, the rest of his suit was pristine, his silver tie tack glinting softly in the dim light.

“Miss Fisher,” he spat, his tone making it clear that she was beneath his contempt. 

Phryne thought that he might be trying for the cold dismissal that every good butler learned, but it did not carry the calm that it should have. He was furious, and he wasn’t hiding it.

With a sneer, he shouldered the rifle, pointing it at her. “I should shoot you right now,” he murmured. “If not for you, it all would have gone to plan. I would still be employed.”

“But you’d still be a murderer,” Phryne replied, wishing that her voice was as calm as she’d intended. 

“That was not. My. FAULT!” He roared, spittle flying from his lips. 

Phryne carefully pushed backward on the bench seat of the car. Maybe she could jump out the far side of the car, put it between her and that gun. But she had to keep him talking.

“So you’ve said. If Will had just fallen in line, he would still be alive, wouldn’t he?”

“He refused to understand,” Mansel hissed, his eyes wild. The gun did not waver. “He was so stubborn. I told him, I tried to make him listen, but he _wouldn’t_.” 

Mansel adjusted his hands on the gun, his fingers flexing before returning to their places. He obviously had handled one of these weapons before. It sat comfortably against his shoulder, and he didn’t seem to be thinking at all about how to hold it most effectively. 

“I would have _helped_ him. I would have _mentored_ him. But he. Wouldn’t. Listen.” On the last words, his voice dropped to a growl, and he ducked his head to sight along the barrel of the gun. “Just like you wouldn’t listen, Miss Fisher.” His thumb came up to cock the firing mechanism, and Phryne held her breath.

“Mansel!” Jack’s shout came from outside the door, and Phryne felt her heart shudder at the sound of his voice. 

Mansel whirled without changing his shooting readiness—now he was sighting along the barrel toward the door. And Jack was on the other side. The fear in Phryne’s belly turned to ice.

“Jack! He has a smelly!” She pronounced the rifle’s model designation—SMLE—in the shortened form, as had become the habit of anyone who’d been anywhere near the front lines. 

Mansel took a step backward and pivoted to face her again, his expression considering. As frightening as it was to have that gun pointed at her, she’d much rather that than have him point it at Jack. 

“Did you spend time in France, then, Miss Fisher?” Mansel asked the question quietly, his tone genuinely curious.

“I drove an ambulance for two years.” Her response was nearly automatic, the kind of answer she’d given at countless parties in those first years after it ended. It was the kind of non-answer that those who hadn’t been there could accept, and that those who had could sympathize with.

“A long time,” Mansel murmured.

“Forever,” Phryne replied.

Mansel met her eyes for a moment, the understanding on his face clear, but then he seemed to remember where they were and that he was not meant to feel for her. His face hardened, his lips thinning as he grimaced.

“Start the car, Miss Fisher,” he said, his voice hard. 

“And if I don’t?” 

In answer, Mansel lowered his head to the gun sight again. “I will try not to kill you,” he said, tone matter-of-fact.

“Give it up, man! There’s no need to hurt anyone else!” 

As if without thought, Mansel pivoted again, his gun tracking Jack’s voice, which had come from a different point.

 _Brilliant man_ , Phryne thought, _keep moving_.

“I am not a violent man, inspector!” Mansel shouted, and Phryne could tell that he actually believed his words. “I do not wish to hurt anyone. I just want to go!”

“You know we can’t allow that.” Jack said. 

Mansel pivoted again to aim at the new source of his voice. As he took another step away from the car, Phryne scooted toward the open driver’s door. Maybe she could get out that way while Mansel was distracted.

“Will Blakehurst was a good man, and you killed him,” Jack went on. “You have to atone for that.”

“How many times do I have to repeat myself, _inspector_ ,” the last word was poisonous as Mansel spat it out, “if Will had just listened, had just accepted his place in the order of things—”

“The place you decreed was his, you mean, because you couldn’t stand to see a man make something of himself that was better than you.” The words fell from Phryne’s lips in an acidic gush, her only thought to give Jack a chance to move again before Mansel decided to shoot. 

Mansel roared again, spinning to face her, the barrel of his rifle so close that she could smell the gun oil and metal stink of it. 

“And what do you know about making something of yourself? You’ve likely never had to fight for anything in your life.”

Phryne opened her mouth to refute this, to tell him of her own humble beginnings, when Jack’s voice rang through the door.

“Mansel! Don’t make it worse for yourself!”

Pivoting yet again, Mansel pointed the rifle at Jack’s voice, and the world slowed as Phryne watched Mansel’s hand on the trigger begin to contract. Jack was still talking, and Mansel would shoot him. That rifle would propel a bullet through the wall and into Jack, who would fall and bleed and possibly even die. Not an option. 

So Phryne did the only thing she could do in this situation. She threw her dagger. It flew true, hitting Mansel’s wrist and sticking, the vibration of its pearl handle both beautiful and obscene. Mansel screamed, his fingers contracting, and the gun went off.

Afterward, Phryne would realize that as he’d squeezed the trigger, he’d instinctively turned away from the source of the pain. The shot had gone wild, tunneling through the garage door, but low to the ground and far from where her inspector stood. In that moment, however, all she could do was scream.

“Jack!” 

Propelling herself out of the car, she picked up the nearest thing to hand, which turned out to be the prybar that Mansel had used to break open the lock on the gun cabinet. Without really planning it, she grasped the thing in both hands, pulled her arms back, and swung, hitting the butler—ex-butler—over the head. With a grunt, Mansel collapsed, his eyes rolling back in his head and her knife still quivering in his arm.

“Phryne!” 

Jack’s shout was accompanied by a shaft of light as he heaved the garage door open and rushed inside. She looked at him—for a moment he stood in the sunlight, his body limned by a halo—and the world seemed to settle around her, the memories of war and blood and pain distancing themselves again.

“I’m happy to see that he missed, inspector,” she said with almost her usual level of insouciance, dropping the prybar to the dirt floor, where it settled with a muffled thud.

He tilted his head at her and came close, a pair of darbys held loosely in one hand. “And you didn’t.” 

The words were dry, and the hand he placed at the small of her back was warm. Phryne leaned into him for just a moment, closing her eyes to breathe in the scent of him and banish the last vestiges of the remembered reek of war. He pressed a kiss to her forehead before releasing her to crouch beside the now-groaning Mansel and fasten the darbys around his uninjured wrist.

“Oh, Jack, just a moment!” Glancing around, Phryne moved to the cabinet of coveralls and took a clean rag off the shelf. Returning to where Jack crouched beside Mansel, she picked up his hand and examined the place where her knife protruded from his flesh. Satisfied that she wouldn’t be aggravating the injury too much, she quickly removed the blade and pressed the rag to the wound, gripping it hard to stop the bleeding. Mansel groaned louder.

Wordlessly, Jack passed her a couple of pieces of twine cut from a roll on the workbench, and Phryne efficiently tied her makeshift bandage in place. Standing, she retrieved another cloth and carefully wiped her blade before lifting her skirt and tucking it back into her stocking. Moving back to Jack, who was watching her with a look of amused understanding, she smiled.

“Let’s wrap this up, shall we?” She suggested, running a hand down her inspector’s arm. 

He nodded wordlessly and turned to their prisoner. Mansel’s eyes were open, but he seemed to be having trouble focusing, if the rapid blinking of his eyes was anything to judge by. 

“Come then, Mr. Mansel,” Jack said calmly, hauling the other man to his feet. “Let’s get you into the car and take you down to the station.” He shot a glance at the rifle that lay in the dust at their feet and shared a glance with Phryne. “I think we can trust our host to clear away this mess.”

Phryne held the door as Jack muscled Mansel into the car, fastening the other side of the darbys to the bar that ran along the back of the front seat. He was just closing the man in when Constable Sawyer came running up.

“Sorry… I’m late… sir,” Sawyer panted. His face was red from exertion and sheened with sweat; he’d obviously run all the way from the station. He stopped short of where Phryne and Jack stood beside the car and bent over, his breath heaving.

“You made good time, actually,” Jack said, stepping toward him, his hand falling from where he’d rested it on the car’s roof. Phryne leaned into the driver’s door and tugged the key from the car’s ignition; she dropped it into Jack’s palm, and he turned to face the constable.

“If you’d take him down to the station, Sawyer,” Jack said, holding the keys out, “I’ll follow shortly. I want to be sure that the household is all right.” 

Sawyer nodded and took the keys. Phryne stepped out of his way and he slid into the driver’s seat. 

“Oh, and Sawyer?” 

“Sir?”

“Best call Dr. Bready in—some force was required to subdue the man, and he likely needs medical attention.” Jack glanced over his shoulder at Phryne, who did her best to look innocent.

“Yes, sir.” 

“Good man,” Jack said, closing the car door and patting the roof before turning to Phryne. “Shall we, Miss Fisher?” He held out his arm to her, and Phryne slid her hand into the crook of his elbow.

“Most certainly, inspector.”

 

* * *

 

Late that night, paperwork completed and the story repeated for both the constable and the household, Phryne slid naked into bed beside Jack. He wrapped an arm around her, pulling her close; his bare chest warm against her skin. With a low moan, he rolled to cover her, holding her tightly with his head buried in the crook of her neck.

“Jack?” Phryne slid her arms around his shoulder, one hand rising to stroke the back of his head. 

“I just need a moment,” he said quietly. “He could have killed you.”

Abruptly, Phryne understood. It had been long enough since Mansel had grabbed her that her own danger had faded from her mind, though she hadn’t forgotten the acrid taste of her fear for him. Jack had obviously been fighting against the memory all evening.

“I thought he’d shoot you,” she whispered in return, trusting him with the truth, the ache of it clear in her voice. “If I’d missed, he would have.”

Jack lifted his head to look at her, his serious blue eyes telegraphing his feelings for her. She lifted a hand, gliding gentle fingers over the bruise under his eye and the still-swollen bridge of his nose, her thumb brushing his bottom lip. With a tilt of his head, Jack dipped in to press his lips to hers, and Phryne welcomed him with a brush of her tongue.

Deepening the kiss, Jack slid his arms under her shoulders to cup the back of her head; Phryne wrapped her arms around him, one clutching the unbruised side of his chest, the other opening wide at the small of his back. Suddenly, she wanted to hold as much of him as she could manage, wanted to be as close to him as possible. The thought that she might have lost him was a twisting in her chest, as if her heart was rejecting the idea of a world without Jack Robinson in it.

With a shift of her hips, she centered him between her legs and lifted her knees to wrap herself around him. His cock pressed, hot and heavy, against her sex, and she squeezed her legs around his hips, pulling him closer.

He began to rock, stroking the dampening flesh between her legs with his whole length, his chest hair rubbing across her hardened nipples, his mouth never lifting from hers. Phryne met him with a rise of her hips that angled his movements to cross the sensitive flesh of her clit with each pass. The image in her mind rose again of Mansel shooting through the door of the garage, and her breath hitched on a sob. 

Jack raised his head only far enough to say her name, a question and a prayer in one.

“I’m fine,” she whispered, pressing kisses to his jaw and down his neck. “Just… love me, Jack.”

“Always,” he averred, tilting his body to allow his hand to move between them, his long fingers stroking into her to see that she was more than wet enough to take him. He covered her mouth with his own again, his tongue sliding inside as he nocked the tip of his cock at her entrance.

When he slid inside, it was on a long, slow stroke that made them both groan; fully embedded, he paused, and Phryne arched against him, loving the stretch of her tissues around him. She slid her tongue against his, wanting to be closer to him, needing him on her, in her, surrounding her.

Jack flexed, sliding his cock out and then in again, his mouth sliding from hers to her throat, and Phryne tilted her head back to encourage his exploration. His movements were deliberate, each thrust of his body into hers seeming to take a long time, and all the while, the coil of arousal in Phryne’s belly tightened. His hand slid up to cover her breast, worrying her nipple with his fingers, and she arched again, her palms sliding down to cover his buttocks; the flexing of his muscles as he moved within her adding another dimension to pleasure.

The heat of his breath on her neck, the weight of him moving within her, and the pinch of his fingers on her nipple came together abruptly for Phryne in a wave of release that rolled through her body. Her fingers clenched on his bottom and her internal muscles milked him; with a deep moan that carried the sound of her name, Jack came too, his body pressing into hers as she squeezed around him.

Still holding her, he rolled to his back, pulling Phryne on top of him, his cock still inside her body; she cuddled close, loving the scent of his sweat and their sex. Jack reached out a hand to tug the sheet they’d displaced with their movements up and over them both. 

“Shall we head home tomorrow, Jack, or take another day?” She pitched her words low, not wanting to break the comfortable silence, but not yet ready to let him go long enough to sleep.

“Can’t go tomorrow. We’d need to get up far earlier than you prefer in order to catch the train.” Jack’s voice was a rumble against her ear, and it took her a moment to get past the distraction of the intimacy of it—strange how that felt as intimate as his flesh inside her body—to understand the words.

“Train? Why on earth would we take the train?” Confused, she lifted her head to look at him. His eyes were heavy-lidded—he was half-asleep already—and she melted a little at his hazy, rumpled look. “I’ll fly us home, of course.”

Jack blinked. “Ah. I’d forgotten that you flew here,” he admitted, his eyebrows rising. “Is it a long trip?”

“Only a couple of hours. We’ll be home for lunch.” 

Somehow, Jack managed to tilt his head at her from his reclining position, and Phryne laughed quietly.

“All right. Dinner.”

“Good.” Jack placed a hand on the back of her head and pushed it down to rest against his chest once more. “We’ve worked hard. I think we’re due a bit of a lie-in.”

“Whatever you say, inspector,” she whispered, turning her cheek to press a kiss against the skin over his heart. Closing her eyes, she breathed him in. The world felt steady beneath her again, and though tomorrow they’d be back to separate residences and would have to figure out just how to manage what was between them without compromising his career, from where she lay, their future seemed immeasurably bright. Letting out a satisfied sigh, she let herself fall into sleep. He did make a rather comfortable pillow.


	12. Amnesty month

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phryne & Jack finish up in Mildura and head home to Melbourne.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thank you to everyone who stuck with me through this monster project. I hope it satisfies! (I also hope that I didn’t commit some egregious continuity error because I didn’t have time to reread the whole thing before I posted each month!) I’ve learned a lot from this project, particularly about the way that I handle plotting. I’m glad I did it, though I can’t say that I’d ever be willing to do it again. Thanks for not minding that I stuck my sandbox in the middle of the playground and made y’all work around it for a year. May 2019 bring you joy and happiness, and lots of fantastic fic! 
> 
> Special thanks to Fire_Sign, who has supported me through this all the way along - having you available to do sanity checks helped me finish this thing. ♥

They’d had a busy morning, rising only a little later than usual and sitting down to a hearty breakfast at Mrs. Turner’s kitchen table. A walk down to the police station netted them a very angry Frederick Mansel, his wrist secured in a cloth sling across his chest and a clean white bandage around his head—apparently Dr. Bready had been to see him the night before.

“The doctor agreed that Mr. Mansel’s injuries appeared to result from his own actions,” Constable Sawyer remarked. “He wrote up a certificate and everything.”

“Well done, constable!” Phryne smile warmly at Sawyer; he had a bright future ahead of him. Perhaps at some point he’d want to relocate to Melbourne.

“Thank you, miss,” Sawyer said with a nod, his cheekbones pinkening.

“Inspector!” Mansel was at the door to the cell, his good hand wrapped around the bars. “I cannot stay here—I should not be forced to share a cell with this… _riff-raff_.” He glanced over his shoulder at Marcus Greenwood, who grinned.

“You’ll be sharing with worse than me before too long, old man,” Greenwood said, leaning his head back against the wall of the cell. 

Mansel sniffed, his lip curling as he looked at Greenwood before he shifted his gaze to Jack and his chin lifted in silent demand. Jack met the man’s eyes, then blinked once and looked Mansel up and down, his eyes flat, before turning away without a word. Mansel sputtered indignantly at his summary dismissal, but Jack spoke over him.

“How long will you have to put up with these two, constable?”

“The transport from Bendigo should be here in a day or two, sir,” Constable Sawyer said, his low, amused voice carrying cleanly across Mansel’s muttering. 

“And you’re sure you’ll be all right till then?” Jack’s tone clearly said that he was certain, but that if Sawyer needed backup, he’d be sure the younger man got it.

“Yes, sir.” Sawyer’s mouth held no hint of a smile, though Phryne saw the twinkle in his blue eyes. “They’ll tire of sniping at each other before too long.” It was clear to Phryne that he wasn’t concerned with their guests’ mutual antipathy. 

“Good man,” Jack replied. 

The paperwork didn’t take long to complete—Sawyer had begun it the night before, so all Jack really had to do was sign it—and they shook his hand warmly before heading back to the house. Phryne saw Jack slip Sawyer his card; she rather thought the two men would make fine pen pals, and Sawyer could do far worse than accept mentoring from Jack Robinson. Slipping her hand through Jack’s arm as they walked to the house, she told him so.

“He’s a good officer,” Jack said, matter-of-fact, but she saw the tips of his ears redden with pleasure, and there was nothing for it—she lifted up on her toes and pressed a kiss to his cheek.

Arriving at the Chaffeys’ house, they found that Brenda had packed their things for them and Mrs. Turner had made them each a packet of sandwiches and biscuits to tide them over on the journey.

“I packed a little more for you, sir,” she said in a mock whisper as she handed it over. “I know you like your food.”

“Are you certain you don’t want to move to Melbourne, Mrs. Turner?” Jack said, his voice warm. “I’m a poor, lonely bachelor with no one taking care of him. I might starve.”

“Oh, go on with you,” the older woman said, grinning as she shook a finger at him. “As if Miss Fisher would let you starve. She’s too clever for that.” 

“She’s right, Jack,” Phryne laughed, “you’re far too useful.” 

Jack turned his amused smile on her as they thanked Mrs. Turner again and went to bid goodbye to their hosts.

They found the Chaffeys in the front sitting room; Mr. Chaffey stood as they entered. “Ah, Miss Fisher!” With a smile, he withdrew a check from his inner jacket pocket and passed it to Phryne. “For your services.”

Phryne tucked the check into her handbag without looking at it. “Thank you, Mr. Chaffey—” 

“Please, I think it would be all right if you called us Benton and Janice now—we’re no longer strangers.” Benton’s smile was warm, though tinged with sadness, and he slid his hands into his trouser pockets as his wife stood.

“Yes, please do,” Janice said as she reached both hands to Phryne, who met them with her own. “We truly appreciate the work you’ve done here,” she said, her tone serious.

“I am only sorry that I wasn’t quick enough to save Will Blakehurst,” Phryne replied.

Benton shook his head. “You couldn’t have known that Mansel was mad. I’m just sorry that Will had to pay the price.”

Phryne nodded her agreement, though she didn’t believe that Mansel was insane. She’d seen too many sane people do terrible things in the name of “right.”

“At any rate, I’m certain that your aunt will be happy to help us find a new butler,” Janice said, glancing at her husband, who nodded. “And though Will is impossible to replace, I’m sure that we’ll be able to find someone to act as secretary. Perhaps someone here on the station.” She squeezed Phryne’s hands before letting them go. “And if not, maybe there’s a young man—”

“Or woman,” Chaffey put in.

“—a young person,” Janice corrected herself, her eyes on Phryne’s amused, “in Melbourne who has the skills we need.”

Phryne nodded. “I’d be happy to help you find someone, if it comes to that.” 

“Thank you, dear.” Janice’s smile was sweet.

Chaffey turned to Jack. “I know you won’t let us pay you, inspector, but I hope you’ll accept a small token of our thanks.” He waved toward the door, and Mikey—the young man who’d fetched Phryne to the scene of Mr. Blakehurst’s murder—came in bearing a large cloth bag and a small basket.

“Sir, there’s no need—” Jack began to protest, but Mrs. Chaffey turned to lay a hand on his arm.

“Please, inspector,” the older woman said, her voice soft, “it would mean a lot to us if you’d let us thank you.”

Jack met her eyes and Phryne saw the moment that his resolve crumbled. He nodded mutely and accepted the bag—which turned out to be filled with freshly picked apples—and the basket, which contained several jars of Mrs. Turner’s jam. His smile showed his pleasure, and amusement that he was so easily read. 

“Perhaps we could ask Mr. Butler to make a tarte tatin this evening,” Phryne remarked, looking over his shoulder.

“An excellent idea,” Jack replied. Then, narrowing his eyes at her, he went on, “Especially if it comes with a dinner invitation.”

“You are always welcome at my table, inspector,” she replied, her eyes telegraphing the unsaid “and in my bed” that she was thinking. 

He certainly understood the message, judging by the quirk of his his lips and the crinkling around his eyes. The long, slow blink he gave her said that he returned the sentiment, and Phryne felt his regard like a warm weight in her chest.

“Shall we be off, then?” 

Jack nodded, aiming a much larger and less intimate smile—the one Phryne thought of as his society smile—at their hosts as they took their leave. 

The flight back to Melbourne turned out to be Jack’s first. Thankfully, it was uneventful—the day was lovely and bright, and Jack was an engaging passenger, marveling in shouted comments over the difference that height made to the landscape. There were only a few moments in which Phryne wished for train travel, if only so that she could talk to him more easily and perhaps sit a little too close. For the most part, the act of flying a plane had its usual effect on her senses, leaving her feeling exhilarated and alive.

When they hopped out of the plane at the airfield near Melbourne, Jack turned to her as they opened the luggage compartment, the body of the plane between themselves and the red-raggers’ cab that sat waiting by the hangar.

“You fly so much better than you drive,” he said, and kissed her as she laughed. Phryne melted into him, her hands sliding up the planes of his chest to link around his neck. Jack pulled her close, aligning their bodies as he ravished her mouth, the thrill of the flight clearly rushing through his blood.

“Oi, you two! We ain’t got all day to wait around here while you snog!” Bert’s yell made Jack pull away, and he grinned down at her, smug and slightly sheepish.

“Be right there!” Phryne sang out, “Just getting our luggage!” Sending Jack a conspiratorial wink, she stepped back and reached to open the hatch in the plane’s belly.

“I hope we can pick that up a little later, Miss Fisher,” Jack said softly.

“I’m counting on it, inspector.” With a grin, she grasped the handles of her bag and the basket of jams while Jack took up his own and the apples. “Do you need to go in to work?”

“I have my own paperwork to attend to—about this case and the ones I abandoned when your aunt appealed to my superiors to have me sent to the back of beyond.” His words were sour, but the twinkle in his eye said that he’d enjoyed himself. 

They closed the hatch and rounded the plane into the view of the two cabbies, who’d come forward to meet them. Cec smiled sweetly at Phryne as he took her things and moved to stow them in the back of the cab. Bert’s shock at Jack’s bruised face bordered on comical. 

“What happened to you?” It was as much a demand as a question, as if Bert was trying to decide whether to be furious that someone had bashed his friend or amused that Jack had obviously fared so poorly.

“Got between Miss Fisher and a sale on shoes,” Jack replied, and Phryne gasped in mock affront, turning to him from where she’d been waving at the man she employed to look after the plane.

“They wouldn’t have fit you anyway, Jack Robinson.”

Bert grinned around his stub of a cigarette and Cec laughed in his quiet way as Jack sent her the intimate version of his smile. It was good to be home.

 

* * *

 

That evening, as Phryne sat beside Jack on the chaise in her parlor, a glass of whiskey in hand and her belly full of roasted chicken and tarte tatin, she wondered how what was between them could feel so familiar and yet so new and exciting at the same time. She’d never thought that she would limit herself to one man again, but being with Jack didn’t feel limiting. He challenged her on every level; even when they sat together silently, as they did now, she wasn’t bored in his company. 

“Mrs. Stanley was pleased with how you helped her friend, I take it?” His deep voice warmed the air around them, and Phryne suppressed a shiver as she nodded.

“Mrs. Chaffey called her while we were in the air, and my aunt left a message with Mr. B that I was to come to tea.” She took a small sip of her whiskey, her smile amused.

“I assume she had questions for you.”

“She grilled me like a fish,” Phryne agreed equably, and Jack chuckled. “I did manage to keep back some of the more prurient details, thankfully. She offered to send her personal physician around to tend to you, though, Jack.” Raising her glass in a toast, she laughed out loud at the widening of his eyes at the thought.

“You didn’t—” he managed.

“I told her you’d been ably cared for and were completely on the mend.” 

“Then I am in your debt.” He toasted her in return.

“I’m sure that I can find a way for you to repay me.” She reached out to lay a hand on his thigh, her voice a purr. 

“I always pay my debts, Miss Fisher.” Shifting, he lifted his free hand to cup the back of her head before he leaned in and kissed her, his tongue sliding between her lips, the taste of whiskey and this man exploding across her palate.

Phryne sank into him, luxuriating in the sensations of his kiss—the strong hand on her head, the slide of his tongue, the hard thigh beneath her palm—and the knowledge that this was _her_ house, and they didn’t have to hide what they were to each other when they were here. 

When Jack lifted his head, they were both breathing heavily. She met his eyes, loving the way his pupils had grown along with his arousal.

“Take me to bed, Jack,” she whispered.

Wordlessly, he nodded, pushing up from the chaise to stand before her, whiskey glass dangling in one hand, his other held out to her. She set her hand in his, raking her gaze up his body. He still wore the day’s suit, and she could see the evidence of his desire for her in the tenting of his trousers. It sent an additional thrill up her spine that he let her see how much he wanted her, this man whose control was absolute; she stepped into him as she stood, pressing her body against his, just to watch his eyes flutter at the sensation.

She slipped past him but kept hold of his hand as she moved toward the stairs, her heels clicking softly on the tiled entryway. Jack followed, silent but never meek—she could feel his eyes on her bottom as if it was his hands, and she was doubly glad that she’d exchanged the dress she’d worn to tea with her aunt for her favorite black trousers. They did wonderful things for her bottom, and she always liked to look her best. 

In her bedroom, the silence continued as she set her whiskey on the bedside table and Jack placed his beside it; as he shrugged out of his jacket while she deftly unbuttoned his waistcoat and shirt; as he untied her lace shrug and pushed his hands beneath her camisole to push both off of her body. She was distracted by the way his hands brushed over her breasts, and he echoed her soft gasp of arousal when she stroked his upper layers off of his shoulders, her fingernails scraping at his pebbled nipples. 

Phryne leaned into his chest, only her brassiere and his undershirt separating them. Rising to her toes, she kissed him, stroking her hands over his bare shoulders and down his arms. His skin was smooth and warm, the muscles in his arms clearly defined hills and valleys for her palms to traverse. He hid so much, her Jack, and not just his emotions—to see him in his sober wool suits, you wouldn’t think that the man had the body of an athlete with the accompanying strength and stamina, in the bedroom and beyond.

He pulled her close as his kiss grew more urgent, his hands on her waist stroking downward to palm her ass through her trousers; she pressed close, loving the feel of his hard length against her stomach and the press of his mouth against hers. Slipping her hands between them, she unfastened his trousers and slid one hand beneath his undershorts to wrap around him, his soft groan the best reward.

Jack grasped her thighs and pulled her feet off the floor, turning so that he could lay her across the bed. Lifting his head, he looked down at her, his gaze holding palpable heat as he took in her near-nakedness and what was, she was sure, the absolutely mooning look on her face. A smile streaked through his eyes as he straightened, pulling away despite her protesting moan to make fast work of the rest of his clothing. When he was nude, he moved close again, bending to remove her shoes and then stroking his hands up her thighs to unhook the side closure of her trousers. Phryne raised herself up on her elbows to watch as he, unselfconscious in his nakedness, gently tugged her trousers and knickers away. Moving close again, he leaned in to kiss her, his hands sliding behind her back to undo her brassiere, and she laid back, lifting her arms languidly to let him remove it.

“Jack,” she whispered, her hands stroking down his arms as he pulled away, tossing the brassiere aside. “Come here.”

“Not yet, Miss Fisher.” His voice was rough with arousal, and she watched as he knelt beside the bed, his hands hooking warmly around her ankles. “I have a debt to pay.” His mouth quirked sideways in a sly smile. “It’s fortunate that you accept barter.”

“Well, if you must,” she sighed, “who am I to stop you?”

She felt his soft laugh more than she heard it, a puff of warm air against the inside of her knee. He stroked his hands up the backs of her legs, pulling them gently apart to make room for his broad shoulders. His mouth brushed the skin of her inner thigh, first one side, then the other; with a soft groan, he pressed a kiss to the sensitive skin in the hollow where her leg met her hip, his tongue darting out to taste her there. 

Phryne pushed herself back to her elbows so that she could watch him. The first time he’d done this, he’d asked her shyly if she objected; when she’d assured him she did not, it had quickly become clear that it was something he loved to do. His face as he kissed her nether lips was a combination of concentration and bliss, and she loved the way he paid attention to her reactions as he worked, changing his approach to suit her pleasure. Today, he dove in, sliding one hand under her bottom and over her hip so that he could use two fingers to open her up for his tongue.

He was gorgeous like this, his hair lying mussed over his forehead and his eyelids hanging at half-mast. He’d placed one large hand on her inner thigh, warm and heavy, and his thumb gently stroked the soft skin there as he licked, suckled, and thrust his tongue against her most sensitive flesh. Before long, Phryne shifted her weight so that she could lift one hand to her breasts, squeezing and pinching her nipples. True to form, Jack shifted to work his tongue against her clit in a similar rhythm, his eyes flashing blue as he lifted them to watch her. His hand on her thigh shifted and Phryne had a moment to notice the way the warm air of the room brushed coolly over where it had been before being distracted by one long finger pushing inside her.

The push and pull of his hand—he soon added a second finger to the first—and the licking and suckling of his mouth on her clit made her muscles go liquid. She fell back against the duvet, her supporting arm giving way, her eyes closing and the hand on her breast sliding down her body to burrow into his hair. Jack redoubled his efforts, his fingers speeding up and his mouth turning rougher. Orgasm swept through Phryne, long and low, making her thighs shake and her stomach muscles clench, lifting her shoulders up as if in an attempt to wrap herself around his head. Throughout, he continued to stroke her with his fingers, his tongue gently lapping at her until she yanked at his hair to make him stop, the sensations becoming too much as her body rocked with pleasurable spasms.

In the languid aftermath, she watched him get to his feet between her thighs, his cock hard and straining against his flat belly. He lifted his fingers to his mouth, and the sight of them sliding between his reddened lips sent another shock of pleasure through her. 

“Budge up.” The words were uttered in a tone so deep she barely understood them, but she did her best to oblige, getting her release-weak body to obey her and move up the bed toward the pillows.

Jack set first one knee, then the other, on the bed, one hand on his straining cock as he moved toward her. Phryne expected him to cover her with his body, his chest warm and hard against hers, but he set a hand on her hip and urged her to roll a little, facing away from him. He spooned against her, his hand sliding down to lift her top leg a little and allow him to push one thigh beneath it, opening her up.

“Jack?”

“Watching you walk in those trousers is a torment,” he murmured, his voice rough. 

Phryne chuckled as she understood. “Do I tempt you, inspector?”

His answer was to close his teeth on the shell of her ear as his cock pressed into her body. Phryne arched, loving the way her body stretched to accommodate his; when he was all the way in, she felt so marvelously full. 

Jack shifted to push one arm beneath her head, his bicep round and firm, his skin impossibly soft; the other he stroked around to cup her breast, and Phryne laid back against his chest, feeling surrounded by him. She never considered herself particularly vulnerable—her life had taught her just how strong and resilient a woman she was—but in moments like this, when she lay wrapped in Jack, she felt safer than anywhere else in the world.

“Phryne.” 

He breathed the word against her ear, and in it she thought she heard everything he was feeling—love, contentment, pleasure, and perhaps just a little hopelessness, as if he knew that this moment couldn’t last forever. Or maybe he’d just said her name.

Either way, the answer was the same.

“I love you, Jack Robinson,” she whispered, and felt him still against her.

And then he moved again, lips skating down her jawline until his cheek was pressed against hers, his hips curling to push himself even farther inside her body. Phryne gasped softly and squeezed her internal muscles gently, welcoming him.

“I love you, Phryne Fisher, so much it scares me.”

Phryne turned her head to meet his eyes. “Me too.” She leaned in, her kiss gentle. A promise. “But I trust you.”

Jack, his eyes suspiciously shiny, nodded and leaned in to kiss her again. “I trust you. I trust us.”

She smiled, and though it felt tremulous, he returned it before kissing her once more, and she opened her mouth under his, the passion erupting through her veins, hotter and more intense than before. His mouth on hers, he began to move his hips, stroking out of her body and then back in again, long and hard and deep, his free hand beginning to roam the front of her body, fingers spread.

Reaching the hand beneath her across her chest, Phryne slid her fingers into his hair again, her other hand grasping his hip, her fingers pressing into the flesh of his buttock. She lifted her thigh, sliding it against his to open herself up as she reveled in the hard thrusts of his cock. Gasping, he released her mouth to run his lips down her neck and set his teeth gently at the spot where it met her shoulder. His fingers toyed with first one, then the other of her nipples, each roll and gentle pinch sending pleasure directly to her clit; she could hear the wetness of her body clicking with every thrust, and that thrilled her too. 

Phryne heard him muttering against her neck, words of love and lust and pleasure, and she sighed her descant to his melodic bass, a harmony made of his name and affirmation. When his hand slid down to cup her sex, his palm riding her clit, her tone slid upward and her fingers tightened in his hair, drawing a moan from him and a renewed urgency to his thrusts. She came apart beneath his fingers, her body’s muscular squeezing making him groan in language bluer than any he used outside of the bedroom; when she rolled limply to her front in the aftermath, he pushed up behind her, his hand on her hip as he finished, growling, his orgasm flooding her with heat before he lay over her, his chest against her back, his lips against her nape.

For long minutes, they lay entwined, their bodies joined and neither needing words to mar the moment. When they finally stirred themselves to rise and clean up, Phryne watched him lift his clothing and hesitate, clearly unsure whether to put it on or fold it neatly.

“Jack,” she whispered, crossing to him.

He looked at her, tilting his head in a question.

“Can you stay?”

“Do you want me to?”

“Very much.” She lifted a hand to lay it on his chest. “Sleep here tonight? With me?”

His small nod and smaller smile filled her with joy. It hadn’t taken long to get used to having his warmth in her bed, even if he demanded that she share the covers. He wouldn’t be able to stay every night—they couldn’t risk gossip that would undermine his career—but they’d figure it out. They were partners, after all.

“Good.” She gave him the smile that she saved only for him these days—full of the anticipation of pleasure and the delight in his presence. “Now, I’m in need of a bath.”

“And someone to wash your back?”

Phryne shrugged, running a hand down his arm to twine her fingers with his. “Let’s start there and leave it up to chance.”

“Wherever we end up, at least we’ll be together.” His words were a quiet vow, and Phryne felt them settle warmly against her heart.

“We’re writing our own story, inspector,” she said with a nod, laying her free hand against his cheek. “And I can’t wait to see what happens next.”

His smile dawned slow and warm, and he dropped his clothing onto the seat of her sofa and reached to gather her close. 

“I’ve heard there might be a whole chapter on kissing,” he said, and covered her surprised laugh with his mouth. It was quite some time before they managed to make it to the bath.


End file.
